Anabasis
by Fialleril
Summary: Eight months ago, Darth Vader turned on his master in order to save his secret wife. Now, he lives as a prisoner in the Jedi temple. But he finds himself with a most unlikely ally: Jedi Master Yan Dooku. Very AU. Interlude: Anamnesis now up!
1. Prologue: The Prisoner

Disclaimer: None of this is really mine. It might look quite a bit different from canon, but it's still not mine. It all belongs to George.

Summary: Not too long ago, it seemed that quite a few people were writing stories in which Vader started out on the Dark Side, and Padmé was his slave. They would eventually fall in love, and Vader/Anakin would destroy his master to save her. And then they would all live happily ever after. Padmé would go back to the senate, and democracy would be restored, and Anakin would be accepted easily by the Jedi... I enjoyed many of these stories, and I don't mean to criticize them, but it always struck me that the end was just a bit too easy. The Jedi of canon did not, as a whole, seem the sort of people to simply accept a former Sith Lord. They didn't even believe it was possible to turn back from the Dark Side, and as we can see from other matters in canon, they seem rather reluctant to accept that they have been wrong. What would they likely have done with a reformed Vader?

And so this story was born. It begins where most of the others end, and explores the life of Anakin Skywalker, formerly Darth Vader, in the aftermath of the destruction of the Empire, during which time he is held as a prisoner in the Jedi temple. But he makes an unlikely ally...

Characters: Anakin/Vader, Dooku, Padmé, some Obi-Wan, guest appearances by Yoda and Mace Windu

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**Prologue: The Prisoner**

It had been eight short months since the fall of the First Galactic Empire. Only eight months ago, Lord Darth Vader had turned suddenly on his master, Emperor Palpatine, in order to save the life of a slave girl. No one quite knew why, but rumors abounded, and in the streets of Coruscant, the people talked of little else.

The fact that Vader had reportedly spent a whole month in the Jedi Healers' ward following the overthrow of Palpatine only added to the speculation. There were whispers that he had been brutally injured, even near death. Some said that he had had several organs and even limbs replaced, others that he had spent nearly two months on a mechanized respirator. Still others, more sensible folk, insisted that the whole business was nonsense. The Emperor had, after all, simply been an old man. Politically shrewd, certainly, but not physically dangerous. Vader should have had no difficulty murdering him.

What was more puzzling, then, was why Vader had not declared himself Emperor. Instead, he had disappeared, apparently whisked away by surviving members of the Jedi Order. Masters Yoda and Windu had announced, only two days after the death of the Emperor, that the Order held Vader in custody, and that the surviving Jedi would be returning to their ancestral temple on Coruscant. The galaxy would be restored to a state of democracy.

Vader was kept as a prisoner at the Jedi temple. The Jedi themselves were wise enough to know that the galaxy would need proof of their claims, and in the early days of the interchange of power, they missed no opportunity to display their prisoner to the masses.

Vader himself, strangely, showed no indication of fighting back against his captors, or even of attempting escape.

Nevertheless, the Jedi were loath to have him out of close confinement. They considered him still highly dangerous, and when he had made enough appearances to satisfy the fears of the public, he was kept permanently in a small cell in the Jedi temple, and allowed no visitors, save one.

And that was the other thing. No sooner had the Senate been reinstated and the democratic process returned to a semblance of normality, than Senator Amidala of Naboo had begun arguing for Vader's release.

She said that he had changed, that he was no longer a Sith. She said that Palpatine had been his Sith Master, but that Vader had nearly died in order to save her life. She claimed that _she _had been the slave girl of the rumors.

And she said that she loved him.

It was all a bit too much. No one really believed her. They thought perhaps she had gone mad, what with all the turmoil and personal loss she had faced lately.

So when the Jedi were forced to confirm parts of her story, the people didn't know what to think.

What she had said was true, and it was verifiable. She had in fact been Vader's slave, and he had, apparently, saved her life when Palpatine attempted to kill her. Her handmaiden Sabé could corroborate this. And even the Jedi admitted that it was true.

What they refused to admit was that Vader had changed. It all seemed far too simple. And many of the people agreed with them. After all, would this not be the perfect ploy to gain power?

But as the months passed and Vader continued to put up no resistance to his Jedi captors, much less make a bid for galactic dominion, people began to wonder.

Some of them even began to wonder if Senator Amidala might be right.


	2. The Compassion of Strangers

Note: It was brought to my attention that I ought to explain just how AU this story is. So, for the purposes of this story, Anakin was never a Jedi, but was found by Palpatine at a young age and raised as a Sith. He was never in the suit. He met Padmé for the first time when she became his slave. The Galactic Empire began not long after the battle of Naboo. Dooku never turned, and is in fact still a very respected Jedi Master. I think that covers all the bases...

Note on the title: I put this in the first chapter, but for some reason it didn't show up... Anyway, Anabasis is an ancient Greek word meaning "going up," metaphorically in the sense of a return from the Underworld.

And now, without further ado, Chapter I...

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**Chapter I: The Compassion of Strangers**

There were voices outside his cell.

That surprised him. Padmé was not due to come for an hour yet, if they allowed her to come at all. She was his only visitor, and her visits were always all too short. His captors allowed her only two hours a day with him, and sometimes not even that. He had heard her pleading with them several times, heard her quiet tears, but they would not relent.

Almost he could hate them for those tears, but she would not want him to. And in any case he found it difficult to hate anyone these days, except perhaps himself.

And there was Palpatine. There was always Palpatine.

"I'm sorry, Master," the Jedi guarding his door was saying, "but I can't let you in. The Council does not wish anyone to see him, and certainly not alone."

"I assure you, Master Kenobi," said a deep, cultured voice he had never heard before, "I am in no danger. I am not sure what the Council hopes to accomplish by keeping him isolated, but I am sure I shan't damage their plans by speaking with him for a few moments."

"With all due respect, Master," he heard Kenobi say, sounding more irritated by the minute, "he is a Sith. And one capable of defeating one of the most dangerous Sith Masters in the history of their order."

He imagined that the other was smiling slightly as he replied, "Oh, I have every confidence in his ability to defeat me easily, even in his current condition. I simply know that he will not."

There was a snort from Kenobi. "Master…"

"No, no," the other cut him off wearily. "He will not defeat me because he will not fight me. It is as simple as that. There is no darkness in him now." There was a profound sigh. "But the Council is so blinded by tradition that they fail to see what is before their eyes. He has turned, Obi-Wan. He has come back to the Light. And I intend to speak with him."

"He is not a curiosity, Master," Kenobi said, rather stiffly. "And you know as well as I, if not better, that it is impossible for anyone to turn from the Dark Side."

"Not at all," said the other, quite cheerfully, the prisoner thought. "It has simply never happened before. That hardly makes it impossible."

"Master, the Order teaches…"

"And furthermore," the other cut in smoothly, "I am quite aware that he is not a curiosity. On the contrary, he is a man who has been caged in a rather small room for a number of months now, and who is only allowed short visits from his wife when the entire Jedi Council is present. I imagine he must be going quite mad, and I would venture to say that he could probably use some company. Now please, Master Kenobi, unlock that door."

There was a pause, and then some whispered words that he could not quite catch, and then, to his surprise, the door whisked open and an older man stepped in. He was tall, with a highly cultured look to him, and he carried himself with quiet dignity. The prisoner found himself thinking, rather absently, that this man looked far more suited to play the Emperor than Palpatine ever had.

"Good afternoon," the man said pleasantly. He seemed to genuinely mean it. "I am Yan Dooku."

"Anakin Skywalker," the prisoner replied, so startled by the other's mode of address that he responded without really thinking about it. He was pleased to realize that he didn't have to remind himself of his own name any more. He wondered just how long he had been thinking of himself as Anakin. It was probably since Padmé and he had decided to marry… He found that he was smiling just thinking of her.

"I am pleased to finally meet you, Anakin," the man—Dooku—said. Anakin was almost certain he was a Jedi Master, but his manner of introduction was surprising, to say the least. He couldn't imagine any of the members of the Jedi Council introducing themselves by simply their names.

"Will they let Padmé come today?" he blurted out. He was vaguely aware that such a question was probably considered rude after Dooku's polite statement, but he didn't care. He needed to know.

Dooku didn't seem to mind his impropriety. "Yes," he said, and actually smiled. "She should arrive in approximately one hour. When she does… I will see what I can do."

Anakin gaped at him as the weight of the other's words sank in. "You mean you'd leave her alone with me?" he asked in shock. In all the seven long months he had been a prisoner of the Jedi, that had certainly never happened before.

When Dooku actually nodded, Anakin allowed his lips to twist into a bitter smile. "I thought you'd want to protect her from me."

The Jedi Master fixed him with an unwavering gaze, but he did not look away. That was one thing, at least, that Palpatine had taught him.

"Senator Amidala insists that you very nearly died simply to save her life," Dooku said mildly. Anakin was beginning to wonder if anything ever ruffled the man. "I seriously doubt that you would then attempt to kill her."

"Your Council seems to think that's exactly what I'll do," Anakin muttered, but with considerably less bravado. He sat back on the bed, fiddling with his sleeves, and stared at the wall. The clothes they had given him were extremely uncomfortable.

"Perhaps," the Jedi replied. He was serene, Anakin thought. There was no better word to describe him. The man could probably walk through a firestorm without so much as singeing a hair. "But the Council and I have often…disagreed in the past. This will certainly not be the first time, and likely not the last."

"Are you saying you'd actually trust me?"

"I see no reason not to," said Dooku simply. "I sense no darkness in you."

Anakin wasn't certain how to respond to that. The only other person who had ever shown such complete trust in him was Padmé. He knew he didn't really deserve that trust, especially from a man he had just met, and it made him rather uncomfortable.

So he changed the subject. "You may as well sit down," he said in an attempt at hospitality, gesturing toward the room's only chair, an old rickety affair that looked as though it had been rescued from the remote corners of someone's deep storage. But it was more comfortable than the bed on which he sat.

"Thank you," Dooku said, and moved gracefully to sit. Anakin actually had to stifle a laugh at the other man's grimace upon sitting.

He couldn't remember the last time he had really laughed.

"Sorry about the chair," he said, making small talk. "I take it you Jedi don't believe in physical comforts."

Dooku snorted. "Then I am afraid that is another issue on which I must disagree with them," he said. There was a subtle twinkle in his black eyes.

"Do you disagree with your Council often?" Anakin asked, still making small talk, but now much more interested in the other's answers. He had heard a great deal about Yan Dooku during his time as Vader. His Master had always held a healthy respect for the man—Dooku had been one of his chief targets during the Jedi Purges—and had considered him to be potentially the greatest threat to his newly formed Empire. Anakin found it darkly amusing that he seemed never to have thought that Vader himself might be that greatest threat.

"Oh, I make a point of it," said Dooku lightly. There was a definite sparkle to his eyes now. "Someone must keep the Council on its toes." He sobered, and added in regretful tones, "And I find that more and more they leave that role solely to me. Once, perhaps…" He trailed off, but, perhaps to his surprise, Anakin seemed to understand.

"Jinn was your padawan, wasn't he?" the prisoner asked gently. "I am sorry."

"It was not your doing," Dooku said graciously. "But thank you."

Anakin nodded briefly, but could think of nothing else to say. It had been a long time since he had simply talked with someone—well, someone besides Padmé, anyway. He had never been much good at small talk, and now his reserves had completely dried up.

They sat for a time in increasingly uncomfortable silence—at least it seemed so to Anakin. Dooku did not seem to mind at all. _Serene_, Anakin thought. It was really rather ridiculous.

Finally, he had had enough. He had learned long ago that the best approach was often the direct one. "So," he began, allowing a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "what does a respected, if somewhat unorthodox, Jedi Master want with a captive Sith Lord? I don't imagine you came here simply for my excellent company."

Dooku remained, as always, completely unflustered. He actually had the nerve to smile. "Really now," he said, "must I have an ulterior motive?"

Anakin snorted. "I hardly think you're here simply to argue for my being allowed to see Padmé alone."

"And why not?" asked the other, suddenly serious. "I may be a Jedi, Anakin, but that does not mean I am completely without experience of human love."

Anakin was taken aback by the other's tone. He wasn't quite sure how to interpret it. He was finding that Yan Dooku was a very difficult man to read, indeed. Perhaps that was why Palpatine had always feared him so.

"I thought the Jedi had a code against that sort of thing," he said lamely.

"Indeed," Dooku responded, as though he were talking about the weather. "And I was under the impression that the Sith had one, as well."

"They did," Anakin admitted, not quite able to hide his smirk. "Probably because it tends to lead to Sith apprentices murdering their masters and throwing away the empire they've worked decades to build, all on a moment's whim."

"Ah." Dooku nodded sagely. "I see how that might pose difficulties."

"Quite," said Anakin dryly.

The Jedi Master sighed. Gracefully. Anakin tried not to roll his eyes. The man was the picture of aristocratic refinement.

"I suppose, Anakin, that I am here because I understand you," Dooku began, and held up a finger when Anakin tried to respond too quickly. "We are much alike, though you may not believe it." He sighed, and Anakin caught a glimpse of something old and troubled in his eyes. "You see, the Jedi Code teaches that it is impossible to turn from the Dark Side. As my old master used to say, 'Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny…'"

"But you don't believe that," Anakin whispered. He hadn't intended to speak, and was startled by the sound of his own voice.

"No," Dooku continued, his own voice hushed. "I find that I cannot. I do believe I would be lost if I did."

Startled, Anakin truly looked at the other for the first time, looked with the eyes of his spirit as well as those of his body. What he found was not at all what he had expected.

Dooku's aura was one of light, as were those of all the Jedi, to varying degrees. But whereas all the other Jedi he had met had manifest themselves in the Force as auras of pale drab, Dooku's presence shone like hard, grey steel. There was the possibility of darkness there, far more pronounced than he had seen in other Jedi. But it was diverted, channeled, used to strengthen the light rather than to destroy it.

He felt, suddenly, that there was much he could learn from this man.


	3. The Compromise

**Chapter II: The Compromise**

"But I have found that anger can be channeled so as not to be destructive," Dooku was saying, politely ignoring the fact that Anakin, who had until recently been listening quite intently, was now focused elsewhere. Dooku himself did not sense anything, however, and he was curious as to what had drawn the other's attention. "It's not so much a matter of willing away your anger but of—"

"Padmé's here," Anakin interrupted suddenly, seemingly completely unaware that the other had even been speaking. His eyes were shining, and he seemed somehow more alive than Dooku had yet seen him. In the Force, he practically glowed.

Dooku wondered just how it was that the other Jedi seemed unable to see it.

"Is she?" he inquired smoothly, untroubled by the interruption. "Well, then, I suppose I had better see what can be done."

Anakin seemed to come back to himself, and he turned quickly to face Dooku, his eyes both grateful and apologetic. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I still don't quite understand why you're doing this, but… Thank you, Master Dooku."

"No," said Dooku with an elegant shake of the head. "Not Master."

"What?"

"I do believe you have had enough of masters, have you not?" the Jedi murmured. His words held a gentle sting, and Anakin did not fail to flinch, though just a little.

"Yes," he said softly, his mind far away. "I suppose I have."

"That's settled, then," Dooku said with a cheerfulness that sounded forced, even from him. "You may call me Yan."

"Again, I thank you," Anakin said, and then added with an almost mischievous grin, "Now get out there and convince your Council to let me see her, before I go mad!"

* * *

Anakin paced. He couldn't help it. Though his last words to Dooku had been said jokingly, there was more truth to them than he would like to admit.

They weren't going to let her see him. He could hear them all arguing, just outside his door. He almost smiled at the thought of Padmé disputing with the entire Jedi Council as though it were no different than a Senatorial debate.

But he couldn't quite manage the smile. Because they weren't listening to her. Even with Dooku supporting her, they weren't listening.

Force, it had been almost a week! Couldn't they allow him even two hours?

Two hours with the entire Jedi Council staring and prodding, studying his every emotion, his every thought, every movement… But it would be worth it, if only he could just see her.

And she was _right there_! He could just open the door, and…

He turned sharply, angrily, and continued his pacing, trying to remember what Dooku had been saying about channeling anger. He couldn't afford to be angry with the Jedi. That certainly wouldn't encourage them to let her see him.

He wondered briefly if this were all a test, if even now they were gauging his emotions. It wouldn't surprise him in the least.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus on something, _anything_. Perhaps he should actually listen to their discussion. After all, even if they didn't let her in, at least he would be able to hear her voice.

"This is ridiculous!" Padmé was saying. He could tell by the quiet tones of her voice that she was not simply angry—she was livid. For a moment, he almost pitied the Jedi. They had no idea what they were up against.

"Senator Amidala, you must understand that we are concerned for your safety," an older, deeper male voice replied. _Mace Windu_, Anakin thought. None of the Jedi trusted him, of course, but he had the feeling that Windu positively loathed him. Anakin had heard this particular argument of Windu's so many times that he actually mouthed the Jedi Master's next words along with him. "The security issues—"

However, he hadn't been expecting Padmé to interrupt so quickly, and so his monologue actually lasted a few seconds longer than Windu's own.

"I appreciate your concern, Master Jedi," she said icily, "but as a Senator of the Galactic Republic, I demand to be allowed to speak privately with your prisoner." She spoke the last word with extreme distaste, as though forcing herself to swallow something rotten.

"Allow that, we cannot, Senator," replied the aged voice of Master Yoda. He sounded completely unconcerned. "Only with the Jedi to protect you, may you enter."

It took quite a bit to make Padmé really lose her temper, but when she did, the results were impressive. "Really!" she exclaimed, "I hardly think I need the entire Jedi Council to protect me from my own husband!" Anakin grinned to himself, picturing her standing just so, her brows drawn together, her eyes sparking, her small hands clenched in fists at her sides. She was really quite beautiful when she was angry.

"Senator," Windu began, but he was cut off once again, this time by Yan Dooku.

"Masters," said Dooku in his calm, elegant voice, completely unaffected by the tensions around him, "I suggest a compromise."

"Suggest what, do you, Master Dooku?" asked Yoda. Anakin thought he sounded rather suspicious.

"Allow the Senator and I to go in alone," Dooku said, and when some began to murmur in alarm, he added, "Should anything become amiss, surely you will be able to sense it from here, and come to our assistance."

There was a rather sullen silence, and then Yoda asked, "Agree to this plan, do you, Senator?"

"Yes," she said simply, "I do."

"Then in, you may go," the ancient master finally agreed. "But know that watching carefully your safety, we are."

"And I am grateful for it, Masters," Padmé said diplomatically. But Anakin thought there was more than a trace of sarcasm in her words.

And then he stopped thinking about it at all, because the door whisked open, and she was there.


	4. The Visit

Here's the next chapter as promised. And it's more than twice as long as the last. Sorry for the discrepancy in length, but I couldn't find any better place to break.

Anyway, enjoy the long chapter!

**Chapter III: The Visit**

They stood for a moment, silent, simply staring at one another, not quite able to believe that the other was really there. It was always like this when the Jedi allowed her to see him. Anakin was so overcome by the feeling of being truly alive again that he found himself unable to move or speak. He was uncertain how Padmé felt in those moments—he was so stunned by the sudden sensation of feeling that he was incapable of sensing her own thoughts and emotions. He could do nothing but gaze at her in awe.

He sometimes wondered how the Jedi could look at her and not be blinded.

Padmé, as always, was the first to speak. "Anakin," she whispered, breathing his name like a prayer, and then he could move again.

He crossed the space between them in two long strides, taking her in his arms and burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder. And then he felt her slim arms circle round him in return, and for a moment, everything was right with the universe. He could almost have cried.

"I missed you," he mumbled against her neck, when he could speak again. To his disappointment, she pulled away slightly, but only enough so that she could look at him. Her eyes were sparkling with something that was neither joy nor sorrow, but perhaps a little of both.

"You did?" she asked, radiant with wonder.

He contrived to look offended, but he was so grateful for her mere presence that he did a very poor job of it. "Of course I missed you!" he exclaimed, and was about to give her a searing kiss to show her just how much, but she stopped him, nodding towards the corner of the room.

He had completely forgotten that Dooku was even there. The Jedi sat, doing a credible impression of looking quite comfortable, though Anakin knew it had to be an act, considering that Dooku was sitting in the same chair he had used before. He was facing slightly away from them, reading something on a datapad, and steadfastly ignoring them. But Anakin thought he could make out the edges of a smile on the other's face.

He turned back to Padmé and shrugged, but she was already speaking again. The mere sound of her voice was so beautiful to him that he had to force himself to actually hear the words.

"I know you missed me, Ani," she said, reaching up to stroke his face. "It's just that you've never actually _said _it before. You surprised me."

He sighed, bringing his forehead to rest against hers. "I know," he said softly. "And I'm sorry. But I'm learning…slowly." He gave her a lopsided grin. "It's just that I'm not used to being able to feel things so openly. I don't mean to hurt you."

She saw the fear behind his eyes, and wrapped her arms more tightly about him, trying to reassure him. He was always so terrified of hurting her.

"And you don't," she said softly, her eyes studying his intently. "I always know what you feel, even if you don't say it." She allowed herself a rather mischievous smile. "Though it _is _nice to hear you say it, now and then."

He nodded and drew her closer, as though trying to convince himself that she was real. "I know," he murmured into her hair. "And I am trying." Swallowing a thick, almost overpowering surge of emotion, he added, quietly, "I love you."

Their eyes met, and she leaned forward slightly to receive his kiss. It was gentle, and warm, and it left healing in its wake.

When they parted, he gave her a rueful smile and said, "I'd offer you a seat, but I think you remember how awful the furniture is in here. Master Dooku can attest to that."

For the first time since entering the room, Dooku looked up from his reading, scowling at Anakin's use of the title.

"Indeed, Milady," he said gallantly, with just a touch of sarcasm, "I would never sit in a lady's presence, except in this case I fear it is a courtesy."

Padmé stared at him, then burst into a fit of giggles. It wasn't even that funny, really, but she had missed her husband so much that the simplest things could make her laugh, if only he was there. She had not let go of his hand once since entering the room, and she didn't intend to.

"Well then, Master Jedi, I must thank you for your courtesy," she replied, still chuckling. "And not in this matter only," she added more seriously, her gaze turning towards Anakin.

Dooku merely shrugged. "A Jedi's life is to serve, Milady," he said. "I apologize if my colleagues may seem to have forgotten that."

"I am grateful that you, at least, have not," she told him, then turned back to Anakin, her eyes almost laughing. "But really, Anakin, I've been standing most of the day! There must be somewhere to sit!"

Anakin had the nerve to laugh at her, but she wasn't about to complain. His laughter had always been all too rare, and therefore all the more treasured. "I'm afraid the floor is probably the most comfortable," he said ruefully. "At least it's not lumpy."

Padmé scowled, but dutifully sat on the floor, drawing him down beside her and leaning back against his chest. "If they won't release you, Anakin," she muttered, "the least they can do is get you some decent furniture. I shall see that they do," she added haughtily, with a proud tilt of her chin.

In spite of everything, Anakin couldn't help but grin at her expression. She was ever the politician.

"I don't really blame them," he said, evidently to her surprise. "I don't think they have much for themselves, either, and I would hardly expect them to give their best to a prisoner." He looked away, trying to hide his guilt. "They've treated me much better than I would have expected, actually. Much better than, well…" He trailed off, unable to finish, but he didn't need to. Padmé knew what the Sith had done to _their_ prisoners.

She turned slightly and cupped his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Yes," she said softly. "But you treated me much better than this, even before there was anything between us." She allowed a gleam of challenge to show in her eyes as she added, "If the Jedi truly believe in compassion to all living beings, I would like them to prove it."

Anakin said nothing in reply, but the fingers of his right hand brushed softly across her cheek, and she heard him sigh. On a sudden whim, she took his hand in her own and kissed the dark, livid burn scar that ran along the underside of his elbow. He had very nearly lost that hand in battling his master, and even so the proximity of Palpatine's lightsaber had left a permanent scar.

"How are you feeling?" she asked gently.

It was a rather strange change of subject, but Anakin knew what she meant. "I'm all right," he said, pulling his arm gently but firmly away and wrapping it about her waist instead. He hated the way his scars saddened her. "Nothing hurts any more. I can even do my exercises without any trouble breathing."

"That's wonderful!" she exclaimed, giving him such an enthusiastic hug that he had to laugh.

"Yes, well," he said, shaking his head, "I'm still terribly out of shape. If you gave me a lightsaber right now, I doubt I could even manage to defeat Kenobi."

Padmé frowned at the note of disdain in his voice. Obi-Wan Kenobi had been her friend, both before the days of the Empire and in the early stages of the Rebel Alliance, but he had made a singularly bad impression on her husband. With the exception of Dooku, Anakin had yet to meet a Jedi he found even remotely tolerable, but he came perilously close to despising Obi-Wan.

To be fair, though, she had to admit that it was not entirely Anakin's fault. Obi-Wan, as the only Jedi to kill a Sith in over four thousand years, had been appointed his chief guardian, and had made it clear from the beginning that he did not trust Vader at all, and that he did not want Padmé seeing him.

Ever.

She had to admit that she hadn't been very pleased with Obi-Wan herself, lately. But she still considered him a friend.

Anakin noted her frown and quickly apologized. And she forgave him, as she always did, remembering when his infractions had been considerably worse than a mere insult to one of her friends.

She took his hand and kissed the center of his palm, then leaned back against him and closed her eyes. She wished they could stay like this forever.

"See, Ani," she murmured without opening her eyes. "This floor isn't so uncomfortable."

He grinned and kissed her temple. "No, I guess it's not. Not with you here, anyway."

They settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional sound of Dooku typing something on his datapad. He still appeared to be steadfastly ignoring them, and it was almost like being really alone. Anakin was eternally grateful.

He could have stayed like that forever, but they only had a short time, and she had not yet told him anything about herself.

"Padmé?" he said, shaking her gently in case she was really asleep, though he sensed that she wasn't. She opened her eyes and blinked lazily up at him. "You haven't told me anything about you yet," he prompted. "And how are things with the Senate? I don't get much news in here."

She scowled at his mention of the New Republic's governing body. He had to ask about the one thing she'd wanted to avoid. He had a way of doing that, sometimes.

"Impossible! That's what they are," she groused. "One would think that, after such a terrible crisis as a ten-year dictatorship, people would be willing to work together! But no, it's the same old bickering and posturing…" She broke off with a sigh.

"An old hand at politics, I see," came the sardonic voice of Yan Dooku. "Some things never change, Milady. But it is the price we pay for democracy."

"I know," she said softly. "But sometimes, I just get so frustrated with it all, and I wonder if it might not have been better if Anakin _had_ become emperor and we could have—"

"Don't ever say that!" Anakin cut her off with surprising vehemence. He added, more gently, "If I had defeated him in order to take his place, I would have become him. And you would not have known me anymore."

Padmé shivered. She knew he was right, and it frightened her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean to ruin what little time we have…" He chewed at his lip for a moment, then blurted, "Tell me something else. Something good."

"Something good, hmm?" she asked, allowing him to change the subject. They didn't have much time left, after all. "Well, I've finally found an apartment. Sabé and Dormé are helping me move in this week. And I brought holos!" She pulled a holo-viewer from the pocket of her senatorial robes and displayed it triumphantly to him. "See, this is the sitting room, and I was thinking we could paint it blue with a pale grey trim, and maybe some blue-grey sofas, and then…"

Anakin knew nothing at all about decorating, but he could listen to her chatter about it forever. He was flattered that she actually wanted his opinion. She said that he ought to have some say, since he would be living there soon himself, and he was too happy just being with her to shatter her illusions with cold reality. That would come later, when she had gone and he was left alone.

And if she planned how to decorate _their _bedroom, and even shyly asked about a future child's room, well, what would it hurt? They could never have children, of course, not as long as he remained a prisoner of the Jedi, but Padmé had been so strong through everything, and if she needed this fantasy, he would not take it from her. It was his dream, too, but he had always been more pessimistic than she. He knew that it was just a dream.

He remembered the last time they had talked about children. It seemed almost another lifetime ago. He had still been Vader, and she had secretly been his wife. And he had planned to overthrow Palpatine someday, and become emperor himself, and then they could be married openly, and they could have children without the fear of Palpatine stealing them away.

But that had never happened, as he had known even then, somehow, that it wouldn't. He did not really regret the way things had turned out. Padmé was alive, and well, and really, what else mattered? And she had her democracy, and a husband who had once been a monster, but at least he wasn't anymore.

He had no right to ask for anything else.

"And I was thinking we could hang your Gvanish in the dining room…" she was saying.

"You still have that?" he asked, amazed. It was one of the few things Vader had had in common with his master: they had both been art collectors. But, at least according to Padmé, Vader's taste in art had been vastly superior to Palpatine's. The Gvanish had been her favorite.

"Yes," she laughed. "Though it wasn't easy, I tell you! They were auctioning off your entire estate, so I actually had to buy it!" Her voice softened as she added, "I also bought Varykino. Again."

"Good," he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I wouldn't want to lose that."

"Me neither," she whispered. Both were silent for a moment, lost in the memory. Even in the midst of darkness, there had been moments of joy.

And Anakin could never forget that it was this memory which had saved him.

But the sparkle in her eyes told him there was more she had not told him about this auction. "And what else did you buy?" he asked, teasing.

"Well…" she drawled. "You remember those specialty Var Adanish pots and pans of yours?"

"You didn't!" he exclaimed, laughing in sheer joy. From what she could tell, Anakin Skywalker had three passions in life: his wife, flying…and cooking. It was an odd mix, to be sure, but it was one of the things she loved about him.

"I did," she told him, grinning. "And I expect some of your famed _ralthin _as soon as you come back to me."

His face fell slightly at that, and she watched the play of emotions there. Once, his face had been as expressionless as the stone behemoths lining the royal avenue in Theed. But that was Vader. Anakin had a vast array of expressions, and she was still learning them all. She watched now as he consciously decided to set aside what he knew was true and go along with her fantasy world, in which he would be returning home with her any day now.

"Well," he said at length. "I suppose I could manage that. But only if you promise to keep Sabé out of the kitchen! How anyone could do that to eggs…"

Padmé burst into a fit of giggles, and was about to reply when there came a rather insistent rapping at the door.

Anakin's good humor instantly evaporated, and she felt her own vanish with it. Her husband swallowed thickly and looked away, the muscles in his face contorting with almost physical pain.

Their two short hours were up.

Dooku rose soundlessly and offered them an apologetic bow as he moved to open the door. When it whisked aside, Master Yoda was the first to enter, and he did not look very pleased.

The rest of the Council followed him, each of their expressions variations on a theme of grim. Anakin took one look at their faces and resolved himself to another long week without seeing Padmé.

"Senator Amidala," Yoda began. Anakin thought he sounded rather cross. "At an end, this visit is."

Padmé shot him a glare that probably would have killed a lesser being. "At least give me a moment to say goodbye," she said angrily, and turned her back to the Jedi before anyone could respond.

Anakin looked perfectly miserable, and she knew that his expression mirrored her own. She reached up and brushed her fingers softly along the line of his jaw, trying to memorize his face, but he caught her hand in his and kissed it desperately, as though afraid that she would disappear before his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered with something akin to despair.

Padmé tried urgently not to cry. It would hurt him far too much. Later, when she lay in bed alone in her new apartment, then she would cry.

"I know," she murmured, taking his own hand and kissing it gently. "And I love you."

"Senator," Ki-Adi-Mundi began, and Padmé turned and glared at him.

"Yes, all right!" she snapped and turned back to Anakin, closing her eyes for one last, brief kiss. When it ended, she turned quickly away, unable to bear the exquisite torture in his blue eyes.

Without once looking back, she practically fled the room, afraid she would break down if she stayed a moment longer. The Jedi followed her, and the door swished shut with a certain finality. Anakin was left alone. Even Dooku had gone.

He stood for a moment, staring at the door, then with a soft groan he sank slowly to the ground, his back pressed against the wall. He remained there for some time, doing nothing, thinking nothing. And finally, for the first time in days, he fell asleep.

He dreamed that his mother was singing a soft lullaby as she rocked him to sleep. But he could not understand the words.

* * *

_Next chapter: Padmé and Dooku form a plan…_


	5. Counsels and Stratagems

**Chapter IV: Counsels and Stratagems**

Yan Dooku was a master at reading understated signals. Padmé had only to motion with her eyes away from the crowd of Jedi Masters surrounding her, and he instantly understood. None of the other Jedi had even seemed to notice her look.

They escorted her politely but firmly out of their temple, and she waited as patiently as she was able while Master Windu explained that, due to concern for her safety and to issues of security, she could not be allowed to see the prisoner for some time. The Council believed him to be unstable, and they were unwilling to risk the Senator's life with him. She reminded them of the Republic's laws concerning the visiting rights of prisoners, namely that they could not be refused visitors for more than a week at a time, except in cases of violence on the prisoner's part. The Jedi reluctantly agreed that she would be allowed to return within a week, but added that they intended to keep Vader in isolation until that time.

Padmé very nearly told them just what she thought of that, but she restrained herself. She was waiting to speak with Dooku, and it would not do to make the other Jedi suspicious of her motives.

When Master Windu had finished speaking with her, Dooku very politely offered to escort the Senator to her apartment. It was clear to Padmé that the other Jedi Masters seemed somewhat leery of this suggestion, but they could find no grounds to oppose it. After all, Senator Amidala often requested an escort when leaving the temple. If nothing else, it helped with keeping the media hounds at bay.

They were there as usual, a full pack of them, with their holocams and their sound recorders and their datapads, crowding about the steps of the temple and shouting questions to anyone who cared to listen, and, as it turned out, to everyone who didn't.

Once, she would have been offended by the deeply personal and sometimes downright obscene nature of the reporters' questions, but it had been eight months now, and she had grown used to them. She was even mostly able to ignore them.

Today, however, they were particularly oppressive. She found herself wishing almost desperately that Anakin were there to make them go away.

And then a deep, silken voice behind her said, "I do not believe the Senator wishes to comment," and her oppressors scattered like leaves before a gale.

She turned and regarded her rescuer with a look of intense relief. "Thank you, Master Dooku," she said sincerely, then added, more lightly, "Is that one of your Jedi mind tricks?"

"Hardly, Milady," Dooku replied, a sarcastic lilt to his voice. "I'm afraid I have something of a reputation with holoreporters, however, and it seems to have preceded me."

"Well, I'm not complaining," she said, guiding the Jedi Master towards her speeder. "I wouldn't mind developing something of a reputation myself in that regards."

"Indeed," Dooku murmured. "Qui-Gon used to say that there is only one evil greater than politicians, and that is holoreporters. No offence meant, of course," he added with a sardonic smile.

"None taken," Padmé said, grinning. She was surprised by his reference to Qui-Gon, and filed the information away as something to ask about later. "Actually, I think I'd have to agree with him. Here we are," she said, indicating a blue open-top speeder. Dooku seemed only mildly surprised to see that she did not have a driver waiting for her. Senator Amidala was famous for avoiding ostentation.

"You wished to speak with me, I believe," Dooku prodded, after several moments of silence. The speeder moved along at a languid pace through Coruscant's busy traffic lanes.

Padmé bit her lip, agitated, her eyes darting out over the city. "I can't leave him there, Master Dooku," she said at last, favoring him with a piercing glance. "He may think he deserves it, but this captivity is breaking him. I'm afraid it may even be killing him."

"It is," Dooku admitted softly. "But the Council will not see."

"Then we must make them see!" she snapped, but her voice softened as she added, "I won't let him die, Master Dooku. He saved me, and I intend to return the favor."

"Then perhaps," said Dooku, stroking his neatly trimmed beard in thought, "you ought to plead your case with a higher authority."

"What do you mean?"

"The Jedi Council answers to the Senate, does it not?"

Padmé nodded, uncertain where he was going with this.

Dooku actually smiled. "It has come to my attention," he said slowly, "that Supreme Chancellor Organa has come into possession of some highly critical documents that once belonged to the late Emperor. However, the Republic's best technicians have thus far failed in their efforts to decrypt these documents."

"Anakin could do it," she whispered.

"And perhaps receive a pardon in return," Dooku whispered back, folding his arms over his chest and regarding her closely.

Padmé was utterly silent following this revelation, but a soft smile played across her face and there was a new light of hope in her eyes.

"Thank you, Master Dooku," she said at last. "You may have just saved his life."

"I believe, Milady," Dooku replied, "you said you wished to see Jedi compassion truly acted out. Compassion has never been my strong point, I fear, but in this case, I am willing to make an exception."

Padmé smiled gratefully at him. "I owe you a great debt, Master Jedi," she said. "But I must admit I'm curious—what made you decide to help us?"

Dooku gave her an appraising look, and she saw that there was a twinkle in his black eyes. Evidently, he found her question amusing. "I suppose, Milady, that your husband and I understand one another," he said carefully. Padmé was rather delighted by his reference to Anakin—he was the first Jedi she had known to admit their marriage as a fact. The others simply referred to her husband as Vader and steadfastly refused to acknowledge any sort of relationship between them.

"He reminds me of someone I once knew," Dooku was saying.

"Oh?" Padmé asked, curious. She doubted a Jedi Master would have had occasion to know anyone who might remind him of a Sith.

"Oh yes," Dooku said, looking at her almost mischievously. "A rather brash and disobedient young padawan, actually. Though you mustn't tell him I said that."

Padmé laughed aloud. It was surprising how much easier it was to laugh, now that she knew there was a real chance Anakin might be coming home to her. "No," she said, "I don't think he'd like that at all! He doesn't think much of Jedi, you know," she added with a bit less mirth.

"I don't imagine he would," Dooku said. The thought did not seem to trouble him in the least. "And, under the circumstances, I can't say I really blame him. I myself haven't thought much of the Jedi for years."

Padmé looked at him, mildly shocked. He was an eminent and well-respected Jedi Master, and he was saying this?

"Don't look so surprised, Milady," said Dooku, almost gently. "We are not all blind slaves to the Council's whim. I'm sure you observed that Master Jinn, at least, was a bit unorthodox."

"Yes," she said softly. She had known Qui-Gon Jinn for only a few short days before the galaxy had been plunged into darkness, but she had always treasured his memory. "Did you know him?"

Dooku simply nodded. "He was my padawan," he said quietly.

She looked at him in surprise and whispered, "I'm sorry."

But he merely shrugged, though she could see it cost him more than he let on. "As I told your husband, it was not your doing," he said. "But thank you."

Padmé nodded and they spent the rest of the journey to her apartment in silence.

* * *

Sabé was in her mistress' bedroom unpacking the last of her senatorial wardrobe, and Dormé had just left with the movers for the last load, when Padmé returned from the Jedi temple, Master Dooku in tow.

She was used to Padmé coming back from these visits raw and weeping, and it had always been her duty to provide a shoulder to cry on. She did this without complaint or judgement, and she knew Padmé appreciated that more than anything else. Her mistress had so few allies, and even fewer who truly understood her love for her husband. Sometimes, Sabé thought she must be the only one.

So it took her by surprise to see her friend return, rather later than expected, chatting animatedly with a man who appeared to be a Jedi Master, and wearing an expression that looked almost like a smile. She wondered if Padmé had finally cracked.

"I'm certain Chancellor Organa would support such a bill," Padmé was saying, almost excitedly, "and of course there are others who—"

Sabé cleared her throat, rather carefully, just in case.

"Oh, Sabé, I didn't see you there!" Padmé exclaimed. Sabé thought she sounded almost cheerful. "This is Jedi Master Yan Dooku. He's been very kind, and most helpful."

"He has?" Sabé asked, rather weakly. She was somewhat overwhelmed by her mistress' inexplicable change in mood, and was beginning to wonder if the Jedi had altered her mind in some way.

Padmé nodded, bustling about the future sitting room to clear them a space, and in the end simply giving up and perching on the edge of a packing crate. She reflected wryly that Anakin probably would have found it more comfortable than the infamous chair in any case.

Sabé was beginning to look very worried by her strange behavior, however, so she gestured to the surrounding boxes and said, "Please sit down, and Sabé, I'll explain everything." And she did.

Sabé was silent for a time, considering everything that Padmé had told her, both about her visit with Anakin and about Dooku's plan. But when she did speak, she was blunt.

Optimistic and trusting were not words often used to describe Sabé Elinai. She was by nature highly suspicious, a trait which had served her well in her work as Queen Amidala's decoy, and later as Vader's agent. But no one had ever accused her of tact.

"And what do you get out of all this, Master Dooku?" she asked coolly.

Padmé seemed half shocked by her question and half curious as to its answer, but Dooku himself did not seem in the least perturbed. For some reason, Sabé found that vaguely annoying. She'd hoped to rattle his composure, at least a little. Yet he acted as though her reaction were normal, even expected, and managed to look perfectly regal, despite the fact that he was perched on the edge of an upturned packing crate.

She wondered if his manner had annoyed Anakin as much as it already did her.

"A fair question," Dooku replied smoothly. "I might reply that I get the pleasure of doing what is right, but somehow, I doubt that would satisfy you." She glared at him, but he seemed not to notice. "So I will say, instead, that I gain what the rest of the galaxy will gain if Anakin is freed—and that is peace."

Sabé narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

Dooku sighed. "Let me start by saying that I do not in fact believe it is right of the Jedi Council to keep Anakin imprisoned. I sense no darkness in him. However," he added before Sabé could voice whatever protest she might have had, "I do sense great danger in his continued isolation. Senator Amidala believes it is killing him, and that may very well be. If it does not kill him, it will drive him back to the darkness."

"And here I thought you trusted him," Sabé snorted, her voice ripe with sarcasm.

"Oh I do," Dooku said easily. "But it has been my own experience that nothing is more fully of the Dark Side than despair."

Padmé looked up in alarm. "But I thought anger—" she began, but stopped abruptly, biting her lip anxiously.

"Yes," Dooku replied. "Anger, fear, and aggression, as Master Yoda says, can lead to the Dark Side. I do not dispute with him there. But it is despair that keeps one in the Dark."

"He won't turn again," Padmé said fervently. "It cost him too much."

"No, I don't believe he will turn," said Dooku. He sounded almost resigned, and Sabé thought that there was a hint of regret in his black eyes. Against all odds, she found herself almost trusting him.

"So you think that it will kill him," she breathed. It was more a statement than a question.

"If he remains," Dooku qualified. "So I suppose, Milady, that you may say I wish to do this in order to spare the galaxy just one more pointless death. We have had enough of those, I think."

"Yes, we have," said Sabé quietly. "And I apologize for questioning you, Master Dooku, but you must understand that the Jedi have not exactly been our allies in this matter thus far."

"Well, Milady," said Dooku with a half-smirk, "no one has ever accused me of being a typical Jedi."

* * *

_Next chapter: Padmé has a request of the Chancellor…_


	6. The Devil's Advocates

**Chapter V: The Devil's Advocates**

It was just past 0800 hours when Padmé stepped into Supreme Chancellor Organa's office. He had only just arrived himself, and was seated behind his desk, working at a piece of legislation that, if passed, would offer further aid to the thousands of refugees created by the liberation of the Imperial prisons.

She had come to see him about an Imperial prisoner of an entirely different sort.

He looked weary, and pained by loss, as they all were, but his smile when he greeted her was warm and genuine, and she returned it with equal feeling.

Bail Organa was one of her oldest friends. They had met shortly after Palpatine's declaration of empire, when he was the Senator from Alderaan and she the recently deposed Queen of Naboo. He and Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila, together with several others, had formed the Rebel Alliance, and she, fleeing her recently announced status as a dissident, had quickly joined their cause.

Bail was one of the few people who really believed her strange stories about her time in captivity under the Empire, and her even stranger tales of how that captivity had ended. He believed her because he knew her, because he trusted her judgement and, still more, her heart. Even when she told him that Vader had changed, and that she loved him, Bail Organa believed her.

So now she relayed to him everything that Dooku had said, and she waited.

He was quiet for a time, thoughtfully stroking his chin, and when at last he answered her, his voice was gentle. "Padmé," he asked, "do you truly believe that your husband would be not only able, but willing, to decrypt these files?"

She looked him straight in the eye, and answered without hesitation. "Yes."

Bail stood and began to pace. "Then I believe that we have no other choice." When she looked at him in surprise, he added, "I don't know what else to do, Padmé. The information encrypted in those files is vital, but I've never encountered such strong encoding before. Our technicians can't make anything of it."

He stopped his pacing and looked at her unflinchingly. "Padmé, I'll be honest. If Anakin does this, I can't promise you anything. I will argue for his release, of course, as I have these past months, and if he is able to decrypt these files, perhaps the Senate will consider… But you must know that it may not change anything."

"I understand," she whispered. And then, almost fiercely, she added, "Talk to him, Bail. He _will _help us."

Chancellor Organa nodded, and as soon as she had gone began preparing a request for the Jedi Council.

* * *

It had been a long time since Yan Dooku had visited her library. Years, in fact. On his last visit to the Archives, he had coolly informed her that he had read everything of interest there, and had no further need of the library's services.

He was probably the only person in the galaxy who could get away with saying that to her.

The Archives were the one thing she could really consider her own. It was ridiculous, she knew—the Archives were public, open to all, not just those she deemed worthy (though she sometimes wished it were otherwise). There had been Head Archivists before her, and there would be others after her. And yet… she could not help but feel that the Archives were somehow uniquely her own. It was a strange attitude for a Jedi Master to take, but it was true nonetheless.

Perhaps her keen spirit had always needed something in which to ground her passion. Once, she might have found that depth in something other than her books, and perhaps, somewhere deep within herself, she still did. But she was older now, and she had accepted the way things were. And yet, she had never really let go.

He was still the only one she would ever allow to say such things.

And now he was here, in her library, where she had never expected to see him again. His keen eyes looked almost eager to see her, the slight quirk of his mouth hinting at secrets to be shared and plots to be hatched. She found, to her annoyance, that she could not even manage a sharp remark with which to greet him.

She must be getting old.

"Hello, Jocasta," he said, offering her the customary bow of one Jedi Master to another.

"Yan," she offered, returning the bow. "It is good to see you again, old friend." She allowed the fraction of a teasing glint to show in her eyes as she added, "Have you decided that my library may prove useful, after all?"

"Hardly," he replied with a rather undignified snort. "No, I have a—" He paused, seemingly uncertain how to phrase his words, and finally settled on, "a project, if you will. And I think you might find it of interest…"

He told her everything, as he always had. And she saw the way the Force shown with certainty and purpose around him, and decided that, just perhaps, her Archives could watch themselves for a while.

* * *

The Sith was not at all what she had expected.

For one thing, he was absurdly young. To her eyes, he looked little more than a boy. But she knew that he wasn't. She wondered if he had ever really been a child at all.

He had been asleep when she and Yan entered the cell, his back pressed against the wall, legs curled tightly against his chest, but he had jerked awake instantly when Yan moved towards him. She watched with some surprise as the feral, hunted look seemed to fade from his eyes when he realized who stood before him. It was replaced by what might almost have been a smile.

"Hello, Anakin," Yan said kindly, and she looked at him with a start. She had never heard him speak in that tone to anyone but Qui-Gon.

The Sith stretched languidly, like a cat, and rose smoothly from his place against the wall. She would never have guessed that he had only just awoken. He moved without a sound.

"Mas—" he began, but, catching the Jedi's warning look, amended, "Yan. I wasn't expecting another visitor so soon…"

"So it would seem," Yan replied dryly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Evidently," the other muttered, with a wry snort. "I let you surprise me, didn't I?"

Yan said nothing in reply, but simply favored him with an appraising glance. "Anakin," he said at last, gesturing towards her, "this is Jocasta Nu, our Chief Archivist, and a very good friend."

She gauged the Sith's reaction carefully. He appeared to be analyzing her, weighing her on some internal balance. His eyes pierced her soul, and she was once more surprised by what she found in them. There was compassion, and a sorrow that was far deeper than the result of mere captivity. There was the echo of old pain never fully healed, of heinous acts seen and committed, of agony so great that it stole away even her mental screams—but, just as Yan had said, there was no darkness.

"I brought you some reading materials, young man," she said, recovering her wits, but only just. There was something about his presence in the Force that was almost blinding. "I believe you may find the first particularly interesting," she added, producing a small stack of datacards and a reader and holding them before her like an offering.

"Thank you," he said softly, the warmth of his voice surprising her. Somehow, she had expected it to be deeper, colder.

He took the datacards—and the hint—gingerly, and instantly inserted the first card into the reader. She watched the change that came over him with something like awe. His face seemed to brighten and lift, and the veiled suspicion in his eyes disappeared entirely, replaced by a kind of radiant joy that was infectious. He ceased to be a prisoner, or a Sith Lord, or anything else, and became simply another young man very much in love.

She found the thought strangely heartbreaking.

He took some time to read the letter. So much time, in fact, that she concluded he was either the slowest reader in the galaxy, or else he ought to have the document memorized by now. But she couldn't really blame him. After all, it was the first letter he had ever received from his wife.

"She shouldn't," he burst out suddenly, glancing up from the datareader at last and swallowing thickly. His gaze snapped towards Yan and he asked, almost accusingly, "Was this your idea?"

Jocasta was rather frightened by the change in his tone, but Yan, as always, seemed unconcerned. "She refuses to leave you here," he said almost gently. "You ought to know that. Senator Amidala can be very stubborn when she sets her mind to it."

Anakin's eyes softened. "I know," he murmured. "But you didn't answer my question."

"We planned it together," Yan replied with a conspiratorial tilt of his brow. "With a bit of help from one Sabé Elinai as well, I might add."

The Sith hung his head in dismay, but Jocasta thought that there was the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Sabé's in on this, too?" he asked, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Well then, I suppose I have no choice but to go along with it. Between the three of you I wouldn't stand a chance."

There was an understated tone of cheerful banter in his voice that surprised her—and reminded her of something she had not had in years. It was easy to see what drew Yan to him. She found herself wondering who this young man might have been, had he been allowed a normal life.

"Four," she said on a sudden impulse, surprising herself almost as much as she did Anakin. Though she noted, with some annoyance, that Yan did not seem at all surprised. "There are four of us together in this. Though I'm sure I don't know if the Jedi Archivist will have much of a voice with the Supreme Chancellor…"

He gaped at her for a moment, and then his face broke into a slow smile. He looked even younger when he smiled, and she found herself wondering just how old he was. He couldn't be much more than twenty.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of Yan's com. He stepped aside for a moment to answer in what relative privacy the small cell had to offer, then turned back to them and said, with exaggerated dignity, "It appears that my presence is requested by the Council." He made them both an apologetic bow, adding to Anakin, "I will visit again when I can. In the meantime, is there anything else you would like to request of our library? Within reason, of course."

To his credit, Anakin caught on immediately. "There might be a few things. If you can spare a moment, I'll make a list." And he began tapping away furiously at the datapad in his hand.

He must not have been a slow reader after all, Jocasta thought, because he was certainly a fast writer. In less than half a minute, he had handed the datapad to Yan, who tucked it inside his robes without sparing it a glance.

"Thank you," Anakin said, and she thought that his voice broke, just a little.

* * *

Jocasta Nu was in high dudgeons. She had never taken kindly to being ordered about, and certainly not by a man less than half her age, be he a fellow Jedi Master or no. The fact that the Jedi in question had once criticized the quality of her Archives was also foremost in her mind.

"I'm sorry, Madame Nu," Obi-Wan was saying, "but we simply can't risk leaving you alone with him. The Council—"

"I have heard quite enough about the Council for one day, young man!" she huffed, and with that being said, turned on her heel and stormed off without a backward glance. Obi-Wan watched her go, looking more than a little puzzled by her behavior. Beside him, Dooku was smirking.

"You might have allowed her to stay, you know," Dooku's silken voice cut into Obi-Wan's musings. But he said nothing else. He seemed to be waiting for the other's reaction.

Obi-Wan sighed. "I have my orders, Master Dooku," he said wearily. "The Council does not wish anyone to be alone with the prisoner, as you know. I should not have allowed you to visit him yesterday."

Dooku snorted softly. "I am well aware of the Council's orders, Obi-Wan," he said, not too unkindly. "But their reasoning is flawed." He paused, and fixed his companion with a hard, piercing gaze that made the other want to flinch. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with a grim sadness. "The Council is not all-wise, Obi-Wan."

"Perhaps not," Obi-Wan replied with some heat, "but that is hardly a good reason to trust a Sith!"

"And what, may I ask," Dooku said with an air of unshakable calm, "makes you think he is a Sith?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not easily surprised by any means. He had, after all, survived not only the Jedi Purges, but over ten years as Qui-Gon Jinn's apprentice, and until now had thought that _nothing _could really surprise him any more. But he was beginning to think that might change if he spent much more time with Dooku.

The other was regarding him with something like pity in his dark eyes. "I am not asking you to take my word for anything, Obi-Wan," he said softly. "Just as I would ask you not to take the Council's. Let go of your preconceptions and your unthinking obedience and allow the Force to show you what is really there."

When Obi-Wan protested, Dooku looked him straight in the eye and asked, "Do you honestly believe that Qui-Gon would have advised you any differently?" And with that, he turned on his heel and was gone, his footsteps echoing solidly down the long corridor.

Obi-Wan was left standing alone with the terrible realization that Master Dooku just might be right.

* * *

_Next chapter: Bail Organa makes a deal with the Sith…_


	7. Making Amends

**Chapter VI: Making Amends**

The conference room was already filled with Jedi when Chancellor Bail Organa arrived. He entered silently, with no ceremony, but his eyes scanned the faces of those gathered, and he found that he knew almost none of them. These were the best and brightest of the Jedi, yet they were a pale comparison to those who had been before the Purges. But they were all that remained of the Order.

And he was here to meet with the man who had caused all that.

But he trusted Padmé, and he had never seen her more certain of anything. And that was enough.

The Jedi had been chattering amongst themselves since he entered, but the soft murmurs of conversation died away completely several moments before the large double doors opened. Each of them seemed to tense, some in expectation, maybe even fear, and others, older and wiser, in simple readiness. Bail had spent enough time around Jedi that he did not need to ask why.

The large doors were drawn back a few moments later, and the members of the Jedi Council entered the room with a restrained grace, their eyes ever watchful. In their midst, surrounded on all sides, came the prisoner. He was dressed not in the clothing the Jedi had provided him, but in the dark pall of the Sith, shadowy, elusive. He stood among the Jedi like a black hole encircled by stars. Bail found the image vaguely disconcerting.

He thought that, just perhaps, some of the Jedi seemed rather afraid of being swallowed up.

The Sith was led to a seat at the main conference table, and the Jedi took up their places around him, fingers resting lightly on the hilts of their lightsabers, ever vigilant. When all was ready, Bail took a seat across from the prisoner and, in an effort to delay just a bit longer, busied himself with spreading his datapads on the table and arranging his notes.

The Sith was silent, and the Jedi waited.

Bail Organa was not by nature a nervous man. In fact, his wife often accused him of being far too reckless. But now he found himself unnerved, even to the point of unconsciously fidgeting with the datapads on the table before him.

The last time he had encountered Darth Vader, he had been the prisoner, and their meeting had been anything but pleasant. Sometimes, he still woke screaming from dreams of needles, of searing pain and blood on pristine white floors…

He shook his head to clear it and forced himself to meet the gaze of the man sitting across from him. The man who had been his torturer.

He swallowed thickly. The Sith was watching him with a strange sort of light in his blue eyes. With anyone else, it might have been regret, but here, perhaps, it was something deeper. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that the Jedi Council had allowed Padmé to accompany him.

"Chancellor," the prisoner greeted quietly, bowing his head in genuine respect, and genuine remorse.

Bail took a deep, cleansing breath, willing away the needles and the blood. "Anakin," he replied, slow and deliberate, his voice just as quiet. He noted the look of startled gratitude in the other's eyes at hearing the name Padmé used.

It could not change the past, but perhaps it was a start.

* * *

"Yes."

The word was spoken in a whisper, and it cut through Bail's own words, and even his thoughts, like a singing-sharp vibroblade. He looked up from his datapads and regarded the other with some surprise. "What?"

"I'll do it," said Anakin, regarding him levelly. There was something very old in his eyes.

"You understand that I can't promise anything," Bail began, though he already had a suspicion the other would not particularly care. There was an air of almost desperate despair about the former Sith, and Bail found that somehow more frightening than any anger or defiance could have been. Perhaps Padmé was right…

"I know," Anakin said, waving away the suggestion. "I didn't really expect you could. It wouldn't be right." His eyes traveled pointedly to Bail's wrists, where thin white scars were just visible at the edges of his sleeves. The memory of pain hovered in the air between them, but neither spoke of it.

"Then why would you do it?" Bail asked bluntly. He sensed that Anakin preferred a straight question.

Anakin gave a snort that came out more of a choked gasp than the laugh it was intended to be. "I have to start somewhere, don't I?" he asked bitterly. Bail's eyes narrowed at this, and Anakin sighed and looked away, feeling suddenly exposed. "I suppose," he said at length, and with none of the harsh bravado of his earlier comment, "that I need to do _something_. I know I can't change the past. But their voices haunt me, and… I see their faces… and I…" He paused and swallowed thickly, his eyes boring into the datapad before him with such intensity that Bail feared it might explode. "Some of their families are in those camps, Chancellor. I know that much, even if I don't know the locations. And if I can find them—I owe that much, at least, to the dead." He looked up at last, and his eyes seemed almost beseeching.

Bail considered him for some time, but, strangely, he could find no reason to doubt the other's sincerity. His eyes were raw wounds, no less painful for being partially self-inflicted.

"Very well," he said at last, somehow managing what he hoped passed for an encouraging smile. "I will make the arrangements with the Jedi Council." He nodded, and stood, adding quietly, "Thank you, Anakin. I pray that you will be successful."

They both knew that he spoke with reference to more than simply the decryptions.

Anakin stood and bowed in return, a slow, deep bow—the bow of a penitent to his confessor.

And then the Jedi surrounded him once more, and without another word he was led back to his cell. But Bail remained standing a long time in the place where he had been, contemplating the meaning of that bow.

* * *

"Supervised, he must be," Master Yoda was saying, his gimer stick tapping emphatically in time with his words.

It was a logical and expected precaution, and not even Master Dooku contested it. Instead, he looked about him at each of the Jedi in turn, searching for something, perhaps, but whether he found it or not was impossible to tell.

"I volunteer, masters," he said at last, his voice restrained. He spoke as one who fully expected rejection, but felt that he had at least to make the effort. "I have had some dealings with the prisoner, and I understand him. It would seem advisable, in a matter as delicate as this, to assign someone he knows, someone who may seem less threatening."

"Hmm…" Master Yoda seemed troubled by this request, the staccato of his stick upon the floor turning to a more agitated beat. "Too close to this case, I sense you are, Master Dooku. I hope that formed not, have you, an attachment with this Sith Lord, hmm?"

The other Jedi present looked at one another in surprise and alarm. Could such a thing be possible? The Sith was dangerous, of course, and, if he was anything like his master, well-practiced in the arts of deceit and manipulation. The master had fooled the Jedi for years. Was it possible that his apprentice could even now deceive them from within?

Dooku's answer was a dignified snort. "If compassion is now considered a forbidden attachment, Master," he said smoothly, "then I confess that I am guilty."

He spoke to Yoda, but his gaze was trained solely on Obi-Wan Kenobi's face. He heard the surprise and, in some cases, the horror of the other Jedi at this revelation, but he paid them no heed, for there was conflict in Obi-Wan's eyes. And the Code would not help him here. For both Yoda and Dooku spoke from the Code.

Yan almost pitied him.

He wished, now, that he might have been more of a presence in the boy's life. That he might have been there, in the days and years following Qui-Gon's death, to guide him, to help him see the things that Qui-Gon had never had the chance to teach.

But he had not.

He had, perhaps, one more chance now to make up for that failure. He only hoped Anakin would forgive him.

* * *

Sabé Elinai had never been one to sit quietly and wait for events to take their turn. And she was certainly not about to let her mistress sit and fret while decisions which were out of her hands were determined. So she had quickly enlisted Dormé's aid, and together they set to work on Operation Distract Padmé.

It had thus far been a resounding success. The three of them had spent nearly all day painting the apartment, and had finally worked their way to the master bedroom, just in time to catch the last rays of a spectacular sunset. They were pleasantly exhausted and each liberally spattered with paint of various hues from the fight Sabé had instigated in the kitchen, and they sat now in the center of the empty room, sipping tea from mismatched mugs.

"You know," said Dormé shyly, "when I interviewed for the position of Senator's handmaiden, I never thought I would spend my days decorating and getting into paint wars."

Padmé laughed out loud, which gave Sabé a private sense of triumph. "Well, I do apologize," she said, still smiling. "I hope you don't think it's always like this!"

"Oh, it is," Sabé grinned, looking at Dormé and refusing to notice their lady's pretended indignation. "Don't let her fool you."

"Sabé!" Padmé began. "Really! I—" But she was interrupted by the sudden, shrill chime of the door code. "Now who could that be?" she muttered with some annoyance, rising to answer the door. Her handmaidens followed her soundlessly, all joking left behind and eyes alert for any potential danger.

When they were certain that no threat waited, Padmé palmed the access code, and the door slid aside to reveal the very last person she had expected to see. She gaped at him for a long moment, before finally finding her voice.

"Palo?"

* * *

_Next chapter: __What _is _Palo doing there? And who is assigned to supervise Anakin?_


	8. Codes

**Chapter VII: Codes**

It had been five years since she had last seen Palo Gvanish. Only a few days after that meeting, she had received word that he'd been captured, and she had quite honestly never expected to see him alive again. The Empire did not often show mercy to the leaders of Rebel cells.

She recalled the painting now hanging on her sitting room wall, and wondered suddenly if Anakin might be the reason Palo was still alive.

Gvanish had always been his favorite artist.

She invited Palo in, and only when he stepped through the door did she notice that he was not alone. Two men followed behind him: the first large, burly, heavily bearded, but with a gentle, almost child-like face, and the second sun-darkened, with dark hair and dark eyes and the roguish smile of a pirate. Uncertain, she led the three men to her sitting room, and Dormé set a kettle for tea while introductions were made.

Palo indicated the first of the two men with him, introducing him as Riveth Giro, the poet who had earned himself the nickname "The Mad Scribbler" during his seven years in an Imperial prison camp. He had been arrested for writing seditionist lyrics, and it was rumored that, during his internment, he had carved the word "freedom" into his own chest with a rusty prison knife.

The second man was—

"Kitster Banai," Sabé breathed, her tone perilously close to awe, and Padmé watched, almost shocked, as her ever-practical handmaiden began to gush, "Oh, I saw you five times in _The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise_! You were absolutely brilliant!"

"Uh, thank you," said Kitster with a hint of a chuckle, and noticing that he had a rather attentive audience, he began warmly expounding on the performance in question. Padmé stifled a giggle as she watched Sabé's face light up with an almost ridiculous awe that resembled nothing so much as a little girl with her first crush. Kitster, however, seemed completely oblivious, engrossed in his subject, and she could see that he truly loved his art. "That was probably one of my favorite roles, actually," he was saying. "I found the contrast between the outward heroism and the inner darkness of the character quite interesting to play. Of course, he was really the villain of the story, wasn't he? Or perhaps the villainous hero. Any actor's dream role, really. The only thing more tragic is the heroic villain."

"Which is exactly why we've come to see you, Padmé," Palo cut in smoothly. His voice was almost gentle. She followed his gaze to the image of _The Treaty at Aldera_, his own work, beautiful in its symbolic simplicity. Queen Telania of Naboo, wise and compassionate, stood together with the sorrowing Fiura of Alderaan before the pyre of the great Whiphid Jedi Master, their dark eyes gently accusing all who beheld the injustice of his death. Palo had always considered it his greatest work, and it had been Vader's prize possession, even as it spoke without words against everything he stood for. Padmé had often thought that, just perhaps, that was the very reason he loved it so.

She watched Palo's eyes soften with understanding as he looked upon his own work and knew that it belonged not to her but to her husband. A kind of understanding passed between the artist and the man now locked within the Jedi temple, an understanding that ran deeper than the weight of the past—a knowledge of shared humanity that transcended all else. Padmé saw it in her friend's eyes, and she smiled.

A moment later, Palo shook his head as though clearing it, took a long sip of his tea, and continued. "You see, Padmé, a few months ago Riveth, Kitster, and myself founded an organization called Artists United for Freedom. Most of our members have spent some time in Imperial prisons for sedition and other trumped up charges, mostly related to the perceived threat in our works." He managed a small smile and added, "Kitster here is, of course, the great exception."

Kitster smirked. "I always was good at subtlety," he said with wink.

Sabé snorted, and even Padmé couldn't help but laugh a bit. He was right, though. Anakin had taken her to see _Darth Plagueis the Wise _at the Galaxies Opera House almost two years ago now, and she had loved it—not least because she had stood a mere few feet from the Emperor, who had been completely oblivious to the discretely seditious intent of the play.

"Our aim," Palo continued when the laughter had died away, "is to be a voice for the political prisoner, and to advocate for an end to all such imprisonment. We came to see you tonight, Padmé, because we would like to meet with Va—with your husband, if we might."

Padmé sighed audibly and muttered somewhat bitterly, "You'll have to take that up with the Jedi Council, I'm afraid."

"And we will," Kitster said. "But we wanted to first ask your—permission, if you will. We just want to speak with him, to understand, and maybe…" He glanced between his two companions and seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say, finishing instead with, "Well, he _is _a political prisoner of sorts, and your advocacy, Padmé, has made him rather high-profile. Artists United for Freedom is concerned with the rights and freedom of _all_ political prisoners. We'd like to meet him if we could."

Padmé was silent for a time, biting her lip and looking at each of the three in turn. They were hiding something, she was certain of that. Palo's face was grave, almost fierce in his determination, but there was uncertainty behind his eyes, and some old pain she could not guess. Riveth Giro, who had not spoken a word since entering her apartment, was so solemn as to appear almost humorous, if not for the wild sense of the past that shone in his eyes. And Kitster…she found him most suspicious of all. His eyes were questioning, but there was none of the uncertainty or thinly veiled pain and anger that darkened the eyes of the other two. Instead, there was a hint of sadness, and a hidden _something _she could not quite identify.

And yet, she felt drawn to trust them. In spite of all she knew they were not telling her, she sensed that what they _had _said was genuine. And there was an almost pleading look on Kitster's face that spoke of a kind of hope she had not seen in far too long.

"Very well," she said softly, and out of the corner of her eye she caught the approving smiles of both Sabé and Dormé. "If you wish to meet with my husband, I have no objections. I think, perhaps, it would be good for him. He doesn't get many visitors, as you might imagine…" She considered for a moment, then added, "In fact, I can probably get you an audience with Chancellor Organa, which might help you convince the Jedi Council."

Palo nodded graciously. "We would appreciate that. And—thank you, Padmé. Thank you for speaking with us tonight."

"Of course," she replied almost automatically, even as she tried to puzzle out the meaning behind his last words. "Thank you for coming to me with this. I hope… I hope you will be able to speak with him…"

"So do I," she heard Kitster Banai murmur under his breath as the three men rose, bowing slightly to her. Palo gave her a friendly hug, then she walked them to the door, and they were gone.

But Padmé sat for a long time after they had gone, her knees drawn up beneath her like a suppliant, her eyes pleading with Queen Telania for the answers to questions she did not even know how to ask.

* * *

Obi-Wan Kenobi was afraid.

No one would have known this by looking at him. He was very good at hiding it, even from himself. After all, Jedi did not feel fear. And he had trained himself long ago to hide the fear he could not admit that he felt.

Truth be told, he could not remember ever having truly feared anything before his master died. But that day had changed everything. As he watched his master's life bleed out before his eyes, the first stirrings of a deep-rooted fear had begun to grow within him, and they had been his constant, well-concealed companions ever since.

Only a few years after the crisis on Naboo and the ensuing galactic war which had quickly followed, Palpatine had declared himself Emperor, the Jedi had been named enemies of the state, and Obi-Wan's fear had become the only means of his survival.

He had run. They all had, of course. In those first, chaotic days, months, years, if you didn't run, you were dead. Some of them had been lucky. They had found hiding places and identities under which they could wait indefinitely. Some, like Yoda and Ki-Adi-Mundi, had disappeared without a trace and not resurfaced until news of Palpatine's death was confirmed. Others, like Dooku and Windu, had turned vigilante, helping the Alliance where they could and then vanishing again. Windu had had a few near run-ins with Vader himself, but Dooku had never once been found.

Obi-Wan had not been nearly so lucky. He had spent the last ten years of his life running, and he had become very good at it. Unfortunately for him, he had not become so good at actually escaping detection. It seemed that, in the four or five years prior to the Emperor's demise, he had spent himself completely in running from Vader. They had never met, had never crossed blades, had only glimpsed one another across the crowd as Kenobi once more made his escape. And yet, for the past five years, Vader had been the single defining feature of his life. The Sith was implacable, inescapable, the embodiment of his worst fear.

Because, somehow, Vader knew Obi-Wan Kenobi's deepest secret. He _knew _that he was afraid.

Obi-Wan groaned under his breath and ran a distracted hand through his hair, his eyes returning invariably to the door before him. The door to Vader's cell. He had guarded that cell in shift for nearly nine months now, but he had never actually entered it. Something about it seemed terribly forbidding.

"No use in putting off the inevitable, I suppose," he muttered to himself, glaring at the offending door and wondering, perhaps for the millionth time that day, just what in blazes Dooku was up to. There was, unfortunately, only one way to find out. He took a deep breath, entered the door code, and palmed the access. The door slid aside.

The Sith regarded him with momentary startlement, quickly replaced by a cold, dispassionate gaze that revealed nothing. "So," he said, "they sent _you_ to supervise me. That's ironic." And he smiled.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was most definitely afraid.

* * *

He could sense the Jedi's fear.

It was well hidden, of course. Kenobi was possibly the best person for hiding fear he had ever encountered. Encountered, of course, being a relative term.

The truth was, there was something about Kenobi that disturbed him. It was the man's unfailing ability to escape from any situation, in spite of his demonstrated incompetence as a Jedi. Anakin chuckled softly to himself at that—Padmé would certainly be angry if she heard him say such things. She seemed to think that Kenobi was a great Jedi, and, stranger still, the other Jedi seemed to share her opinion.

It was this that disturbed him. He _knew _that Kenobi was no match for him. He was quite certain that, had they ever truly met, Kenobi would now be dead. (He supposed he should really be grateful that they hadn't met, if only for Padmé's sake…) And yet, the simple fact was that they had not met, because Kenobi had always managed improbably, _impossibly_, to escape. It was uncanny.

But still the Jedi feared him. Once, less than a year ago even, he would have gloried in that fear, would have fed on it, allowed it to give him strength. Now, though, the thought of it was almost wearisome. He was tired of the fear, tired of being the monster. He wanted to be a person again. But it was so hard, so very hard in this cage.

And in spite of all that, the desire to gloat over Kenobi's fear was almost irresistible.

He snorted to himself. They kept him locked away like an animal, and still they were terrified of him. The thought tasted like ashes in his mouth, and yet there was a part of him that enjoyed it.

Dimly, the idea reached him that Padmé might not appreciate his current train of thought.

And then with a start he shook himself, forgetting Kenobi's fear entirely, for he was faced with his own. He was slipping.

He took a few short, calming breaths, his face carefully schooled and shields held tightly in place, as always. Then, as though nothing at all had passed between them, he said to Kenobi in a calm, even pleasant tone, "What do you have for me, Master Kenobi? I'd like to start, if I may."

Wordlessly, Kenobi handed him several datacards and a reader, his narrowed eyes never leaving the Sith's face. Anakin's hands shook only slightly as he took the documents, but he hated how they betrayed him.

With a grunt he slid to the ground, his back to the wall, and slid the first card into the reader. He seemed completely oblivious, eyes riveted to the screen, as Kenobi sank down beside him, and for several hours they remained there, unspeaking, the only sound the furious tapping of Anakin's fingers as he worked at the decryption codes.

Had his shields not been so good, the Jedi might have heard him screaming.

_So many, aren't there? _the voice whispered, somewhere between a hiss and a laugh. _And you think to make up for it with a few codes? _Anakin gritted his teeth and pushed the sound of his own dark conscience to the back of his mind, almost violently. So what if it was true? He could not afford to break now. Not when he was finally _doing_ something.

_There were children, _the laugh-hiss murmured gleefully.

No, it would not do to break now. And Padmé would be most distressed.

He felt a sudden chill at the callousness of that last thought. Yes, he was most definitely slipping.

* * *

The Jedi and the Sith had been almost five hours in the cell, nearly unmoving, and Anakin had managed to decrypt only the first line of code on the first datacard. Kenobi was becoming restless, and seemed more and more nervous the longer he spent alone with the Sith. Neither had spoken in all five hours.

And so it was that when a knock sounded on the hard metal door of his cell, Anakin laughed aloud, though quietly, for Kenobi had started like a hunted ter cat. Shooting the Sith a glare, he called out (rather grumpily, Anakin thought), "Yes, what is it?"

"Master Kenobi," a voice replied, and Anakin groaned audibly. He recognized that voice. "It's Healer Offee," she continued. "I've come for the patient's check-up."

"Right, right," Kenobi muttered, moving quickly to usher the other Jedi into the small cell.

Jedi Healer Barriss Offee entered quietly, all cool compassion and professional concern. She was perhaps the only Jedi Anakin could not seem to make up his mind about. Unlike most, she was not afraid to speak to him, and he got the distinct impression that she treated him no differently than any of her other patients—that is to say, with the utmost care and concern for life. He had no doubt that she was the reason he was still alive now, and sometimes he honestly wondered why she had bothered. She had spent nearly two months teaching a former Sith how to breathe with his own lungs again, and Padmé had told him that she used every waking moment in tending to him those first few, terribly uncertain days.

And yet, he had seen the deep rooted pain in her eyes when she looked at him. It was something that, in almost anyone else, could easily have blossomed into hatred.

He had, after all, killed her master.

"So, doc, what do you have for me today?" he quipped, more to take the edge off his thoughts than for any other reason. He had to remember that he was not breaking yet.

She gave him a quick once over, appraising, and then said without preamble, "Anakin, you look terrible."

"Yes, well, you would too, if you'd spent all day in a room full of ghosts," he spat bitterly, one flailing arm indicating the datacards, but all three sensed that the bitterness was directed only at himself.

"He at least is not a ghost," Barriss whispered almost gently, nodding towards Obi-Wan.

"No," said Anakin, and she noted with some alarm that his breathing sounded a bit ragged. "But he should have been. And in some ways, that's almost worse."

"You would have made us all ghosts," Obi-Wan hissed. "Even _her_."

Barriss stared at him in shock. Never before had she seen Obi-Wan Kenobi angry. It was strange, almost surreal, and a bit frightening. She felt a distinct impression of wrongness clench in the pit of her stomach, and she bit back a wordless reply. She was a healer, but this—she did not know what to do with this.

"No," the Sith said again, ignoring Kenobi completely and turning to regard her with a pained smile. "I couldn't, you see." Before she could speak, he added brokenly, "But she never wanted _any_ ghosts."

"What are you talking about?" she asked him gently. She could almost forget that he was a Sith—he looked small, vulnerable, with his back pressed tight against the wall, and so terribly young.

"Padmé," he said simply. "Did she— What did she tell you, about…the end?"

"That Palpatine tried to kill her," Barriss replied, "and that you saved her."

He winced at that, but what he said shocked even Obi-Wan.

"Actually, I was supposed to kill her."

* * *

_Next chapter: Flashback! Just what causes a Sith apprentice to turn on his master? And how did Anakin become a prisoner of the Jedi?_


	9. Pascha

A note on the title: _Pascha_ is the Greek form of the Hebrew _Pesach_, in English Passover. In the Orthodox Church, Pascha also signifies the Holy Days of Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, and in particular the Easter Vigil held on Saturday night. On that night, Christ rises from the dead, and through the resurrection all of Time is recapitulated.

This chapter is a series of flashbacks from Vader's POV. The main snippets are sequential. The snippets in italics are pieces of conversations. In snippets involving two speakers, _at least one_ of the people in these conversations is Vader. Also, some of these are subconscious memories, meaning they may be things he does not consciously remember.

Many thanks to Le1a Naberr1e for betaing this. :) And thanks for everyone's patience. And now, on to the chapter!

**Chapter VIII: Pascha**

Darth Vader first fell in love with Padmé Naberrie on the night she tried to kill him.

It was only much later, when he realized he couldn't kill her, that he understood just how badly he had fallen.

* * *

_Do you remember your mother?_

_She died when I was very young._

* * *

Vader had never wanted a slave.

It was mere chance that he happened to be there on the day Padmé Naberrie, former Queen of Naboo and political dissident, was being auctioned off. Or perhaps not _mere _chance. Truth be known, he was there to monitor Moff Rassert. The man had become an insufferable problem, but he was favored by the Emperor—Vader would need an excuse to kill him.

There were quite a number of slaves up for sale that day, and she was only one of many. There was not even anything particularly special about her—several of the others were "politicals" as well. They stood together, heads down, in a time honored position of subservience that seemed ill-suited to nearly all of them.

Later, writers and reporters with an excessively romantic turn of mind would say that it was her beauty that drew him to her. This was, quite simply, not true. Lord Darth Vader had never put much stock in appearances.

What drew him to her was the combination of pride and hidden fear. She held herself like the queen she had once been, and even he would not have guessed her fear, had he not been able to sense it through the Force.

She reminded him very much of his mother.

He allowed the bidding to continue until she was sold to Rassert for upwards of ten thousand credits. When the moff had finished making his transaction, Vader stepped forward smoothly and thanked him for his gift.

Rassert's angry hiss was well worth the time he had wasted at the auction.

He took the girl back to his apartment, informed her coolly that he had no need for a slave, and promptly forgot about her. He had saved her from a far worse fate, after all, and she knew it. They both knew what was normally expected of slaves in her position, but he was not asking that of her. It ought to have been enough for her that he did not.

He should have known that it would not be.

* * *

_What do you remember?_

_She was beautiful. Kind, I think. And sad._

_And I wasn't strong enough to save her._

* * *

He'd expected Padmé to run, and she didn't disappoint him.

Her chance—the chance he knew she would take—came only hours later. He had read it in her eyes: Padmé Naberrie would be no man's slave. It was fortunate that Darth Vader did not wish for a slave at all. He had told her this, but of course she did not believe him. He had never really expected her to.

His agents had located Fisto and Secura, and so, barely a day after he had acquired his slave, Vader left Coruscant without a word. He knew that Padmé would run, and the small part of his mind that was not currently devoted to tracking the Jedi was quite looking forward to her attempt.

It took him nearly a week to find them. Secura wept when he killed Fisto, and after that she was no challenge at all. He was almost disappointed.

Padmé Naberrie was more impressive. When he returned, there was a fading red scar on her left cheek, and she looked him in the eye with a defiance he had seen only in the mad and the martyrs. He thought that she was neither. He smiled.

She didn't try to run again.

* * *

_And if I die? Will you forget me, too?_

* * *

She insisted on talking to him.

Vader found this odd at first, as he was quite certain she hated him. He had killed too many of her friends for her not to hate him.

She asked him strange questions, irrelevant things that no one had ever bothered to ask him before. Things he had never even thought about before. Small talk. He answered because it was easier that way.

She liked to tell stories while he prepared dinner. They had begun sharing the evening meal almost from the day she arrived. Vader enjoyed cooking, and he had to admit, it was rather nice having someone to share his cooking with. The stories she told were usually old Naboo legends, fairy tales mostly, but he found that at times, he rather enjoyed them, too.

When she told some of her darker tales, he could almost imagine that he remembered his mother's face.

* * *

_Death, they say, always has blue eyes. I suppose he must look something like you._

* * *

He hated bureaucrats and paperwork, and she hated idleness. It was not long before they reached an arrangement.

He gave her the non-sensitive documents he did not particularly want to deal with, and Padmé saw to their completion. He found that she possessed a keen political acumen rivaled only by his Master's, and that she was not afraid of him.

Padmé Naberrie infuriated him. She clung stubbornly to her Rebel sympathies and took every opportunity she could find to rail against the evils of tyranny and to criticize his Master's policies. She seemed to genuinely believe that she could convince him of the error of his ways given enough time. He found her conviction amusing at best.

And yet—she was perhaps the only person he knew who was not afraid to openly disagree with him, who would even continue to argue her point as the breath was slowly squeezed from her lungs by invisible fingers. She was confident in her inexplicable certainty that, whatever else he might do, he would not kill her.

He never did.

* * *

_What do you remember?_

_I remember the first time I killed someone. I was afraid, and it was difficult, that first time._

_Then I learned to stop being afraid._

* * *

Padmé had been with him over four months when Sabé returned.

He knew, of course, that Sabé had been one of Amidala's handmaidens when the war began. But that was a very long time ago now. When he had found her, she was scheduled for execution on charges of stealing and falsifying information. Tarkin had wanted her dead, but Vader had found a much better use for her.

She was, after all, very good at lifting information.

Most recently, he'd sent her to glean whatever she could about Tarkin's latest project, which he suspected of having a less-than-loyal intention. Her efforts had yielded a great deal of very useful information on both Tarkin and Rassert, and she had also been successful in planting a piece of very incriminating evidence in Rassert's private study.

He was still debriefing her when Padmé appeared. He'd sensed her coming, of course, and so he made certain that she heard only the worst.

He had been looking forward to their meeting, and the angry clash of words that flew between them did not disappoint.

"I did what I had to do to survive," Sabé said with finality, ignoring her former Queen's angry tears.

And Padmé had turned furiously on him, expecting him to gloat in his victory. He simply smiled, because she was wrong in thinking there had ever been a contest.

She was wrong, and that was why Sabé was far more loyal to him than she ever had been to her Queen.

* * *

_What does it feel like, when you kill them?_

_Sometimes, I feel nothing. And sometimes, it feels like fulfillment._

* * *

It was not until he captured Bail Organa, more than a year after Padmé had first come to be his slave, that she tried to kill him. A part of him was rather surprised she had waited so long.

* * *

_What did you dream?_

_I saw a boy. I don't know who he was, but he reminded me of someone I met once._

_Of someone? Who?_

_His name was Penu Chadisk, and I killed him._

* * *

He waited until the vibroblade was nearly at his throat before opening his eyes and letting her know that he was awake. Almost always, that was enough. But she did not even flinch. Instead she lunged, the blade grasped firmly in her small hand, her eyes burning in the dark with righteous fire.

He allowed her to prick his skin, felt the trickle of blood and savored it. And then, almost without moving, he caught her arm and twisted, sending her sprawling onto the bed. As she fell he caught both of her hands and twisted them behind her back, turning her to face him, both of her slender wrists held iron-fast by his one hand.

And then he simply watched her. His right hand restrained her easily, his left resting almost lazily at his side on the bed. She lay, twisted half on top of him, and glared down at him, defiant, angry with him simply for existing.

She was not the first to attempt to assassinate him, and she would not be the last. But she was the first he had ever known who did not fear him.

Padmé Naberrie fascinated him.

She twisted in his grip and tried to lunge again, the vibroblade still clenched tightly in her fingers, and he laughed aloud.

And then he kissed her.

She was still for a moment, and he found an absurd kind of pleasure in knowing that he had surprised her. And then, for just an instant, she was kissing him back.

He pulled away and watched the struggle in her eyes. She wanted to hate him, he could see that, could _feel _it even more strongly. She had certainly hated him a moment ago. But for whatever reason, she did not seem able to find that hatred now. Yet the anger was still there, fluttering darkly over her confusion.

It was only then that he realized how beautiful she was.

He forgot himself for one ridiculous moment and released her wrists, reaching up to brush the tips of his fingers over her cheek. She was still, and he could almost imagine that she had welcomed his touch. And then in the next instant she rose and fled, her vibroblade forgotten on the bed beside him. He made no effort to follow her.

She never tried to kill him again, and he stopped choking her. Truce.

* * *

_But Mom, I don't want to go. I don't want things to change. I want to stay with you._

_You can't stop the change, Ani, any more than you can stop the suns from setting. This is what's right for you. You can be a Jedi, just as you've always dreamed of doing. Go with him._

_I won't forget you, Mom. I promise._

* * *

It was different after that.

She spoke to him less, and there was something different in her manner, something he could not quite place. But it seemed that whenever he looked at her, it was just in time to catch her looking away.

He remembered the taste of her—the salt-iron tang of mingled fear and adrenaline as she returned his unexpected kiss. He wondered if she would taste the same if he kissed her again.

For three weeks they danced around one another, meeting in stolen glances and angry, heated debates about government and beings' rights. But Vader thought that there was something different in Padmé's eyes when she looked at him now, the anger mingled with sadness and an inexplicable determination. It was as though she had seen something in him, something he did not even know about himself. He wasn't certain he liked that idea.

In the end, it was Padmé who came to him. But it was he who surrendered.

She tasted sweet, like everything he had thought lost long ago.

* * *

_What do you remember?_

_I remember learning to be strong. I remember the pain, and the power. I remember a demon, and I remember the way he died._

_I remember learning to forget._

* * *

He never told her he loved her. She asked him, only once, and he said that a Sith did not love. But they both knew he was lying.

But he whispered it, sometimes—when they made love and he was vulnerable and couldn't hide from her. He whispered it then, his face buried in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, and he always cried. She kissed away his tears and said nothing at all.

The first time she came to him, he told her his name. Not Vader, but Anakin. He had almost forgotten it, until she came to him. He had no use for it. He was not sure why he told her. Perhaps he wanted to be known. Perhaps he wanted to be certain that he had not coerced her. Perhaps he had simply wanted to hear her say his name.

He told her other things, things he would not admit even to himself, and she was wise enough never to speak of them outside of the sanctuary of their quarters. He told her about his training, about the people he'd killed and the things he'd done, about the mother he could not remember. He wasn't sure which of those things troubled her most.

It didn't matter. He was what he was, and for all her defiance, she had evidently finally accepted that.

One thing only was changed. She called him Anakin, and he began to dream of an empire they would rule together.

* * *

_What was her name?_

_I don't remember._

* * *

Only once had she doubted his faithfulness.

It was after the incident with Dursin, when Sabé returned broken and in tears. It took her three days to admit to Padmé what had happened, to confess the thing that the man had done to her, but Vader had never needed to ask. The terrible sounds she made reminded him too much of the only thing he remembered about his mother.

On the fifth day he pulled Sabé away, saying he had a gift for her. Padmé did not see either of them for several hours, and when they returned, Sabé was noticeably more cheerful.

He knew that Padmé was suspicious. But she was also intelligent, and in time she would see that it was ridiculous. And even if she did not, better that she should draw her own false conclusions than that she should know the truth.

He had given Sabé the only gift that would satisfy either of them. He had given her Dursin. He'd even offered to let her borrow his lightsaber, but she preferred her vibroblades. It was fortunate that he'd had the room soundproofed.

And so he ignored Padmé's questioning, almost-hurt stare, and went to com someone to clean up the mess.

* * *

_What do you remember?_

_I remember a man, and darkness, and shuddering cold fear under the bench in the dark. I remember she was crying._

_I remember her screams._

* * *

Vader never remembered how the subject of marriage had come up. But he thought perhaps they had been talking about childhood memories. Or more accurately, Padmé had been. She was forever trying to make him remember. He could not understand why she thought it so important.

She was telling him about the ideal wedding she had dreamed of as a girl. Privately, he thought the whole subject rather trite and completely out of character for her, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He had spent the whole day in councils and discussion with his Master and his Master's lackeys and was simply thankful that Padmé was talking about something other than politics.

There was a wistfulness to her voice, however, and he noticed that she did not meet his eyes as she spoke.

The Naboo, he knew, placed a strong emphasis on marriage. Evidently, Padmé was no different. She wanted to be married.

He almost laughed at her when she admitted that. But somehow, he could not quite manage it. Instead, he found himself telling her about Tatooine.

Slaves, because they did not belong to themselves, were forbidden to marry. It had been so on Tatooine, and it was so now throughout his Master's Empire. But on Tatooine, the slaves had reached agreements among themselves, and the community had considered them married. And that was enough.

He had not intended to tell her—he had not thought he would need to. After all, had he not often told her that when he had defeated his Master, she would be his Empress? But the words came of their own accord. He told Padmé that he considered them to be married.

For a brief moment, her eyes shone, but then the joy was replaced with a warm sadness. Her fingers brushed lightly across his face.

"So you too are a slave?" she whispered.

He did not answer.

* * *

_Sir? Mom said if I went with you, I would be a Jedi._

_No, not a Jedi. Something much greater, much more powerful than a Jedi. You will have power over all. All save one._

* * *

He liked to watch her sleep.

He did not usually sleep more than four hours a night himself. Sleep was a luxury, and one he did not indulge in more often than strictly necessary. He found his rest in meditation and silence, and he kept himself always ready.

But he stayed with Padmé when she slept. She looked younger in her sleep, and almost peaceful, that defiant spark banked, lying dormant until she woke again. She reminded him a bit of a child, but he always shied away from that thought.

She would lie beside him, defenseless, vulnerable, her head pillowed on his chest and her lips slightly parted. She slept soundly, and sometimes, in her dreaming, she murmured his name.

She always called him Anakin.

He knew that she was not completely naïve. She knew what he had done, what he was. And yet she trusted him. He thought she was a fool to trust him.

But he still liked to watch her sleep.

* * *

_Anakin? Do you ever think about children?_

_Yes. Sometimes._

* * *

It was Padmé who taught Vader the fine art of diplomacy. His Master had taught him what to say, how to deceive with words and actions and appearance. But she taught him what not to say, how to disguise his deeds with silence. His Master had taught him that the words he spoke had power. Padmé taught him that those he did not speak had even more.

He told her very little about his missions. He told her about the politics, the infighting, sometimes even about the military campaigns.

He did not tell her about the killings. He said nothing about the Purges. After the incident with Organa, he made certain that she did not know about his prisoners, and he gave her no inkling of his methods of interrogation.

She guessed some of it, he was sure. But what was unspoken was best. And she did not know enough of darkness to guess the worst.

He never told her about the children.

* * *

_I remember once there was a boy with blue eyes who dreamed of freeing all the slaves._

_What happened to him?_

_He died, the way all children do._

* * *

For as long as he could remember, Vader had dreamed. He dreamed the past, and the present in all its variation, and sometimes, he dreamed the future.

He saw these dreams of the future for what they were: mere possibility. His Master had taught him that dreams were never to be disregarded, but neither should he form his actions around them. They shifted, like the Force. Like the Sith.

But Vader had also learned the difference between those dreams which were simple manifestations of his own will, and those which came from some elusive elsewhere.

Two nights before the end, he dreamed his own death. He did not tell Padmé.

* * *

_What do you remember?_

_I remember sand, and bright hot sun. I was very young, and I had fallen and skinned my knee. I was crying. _

_That was before I learned that pain is only a tool._

_But you are still falling._

* * *

Part of him had always known that he could not keep a secret from his Master forever. It was the same part that had always known that one day he would kill Padmé Naberrie.

The other part of him, the part that spoke with the voice of his Master, said that he ought to have killed her long ago.

* * *

_Sometimes, if I sat long enough in the dark, I thought she might come to me. There are ways, techniques, meditations. My master had even shown me how to call upon the dead._

_But she never came. And eventually, I stopped trying._

_A Sith has no use for superfluous memories._

* * *

"Kill her."

His Master's words echoed as though through a dream, and Vader realized distantly that he had been living this moment his entire life.

He had drawn and ignited his lightsaber before his Master had even finished speaking. The red glow lent his apartment an eerie, otherworldly look, like a place he had seen once in his dreams. His Master stood to the side, waiting, his eyes dark and hungry.

Vader stepped forward without hesitation, and the glow of his lightsaber lit Padmé's face with crimson fire. She did not flinch.

And that was when he made his greatest mistake. He looked her in the eye.

She was not afraid, the way all the others had been. She did not cry, and she did not plead. Her eyes asked nothing of him. They were not even resigned.

She was smiling.

And he knew that it was a mistake, but he had to know why.

* * *

_What do you remember?_

_I remember._

_I remember green. There was grass, and light, and someone was laughing. I think I was happy._

_I remember three days. There was a lake, and a meadow, and we only had three days, but she would smile at me, almost like I deserved it, and it was enough._

* * *

She was remembering Varykino. He had almost forgotten it himself. Perhaps it had never happened at all, but it was there, in her mind, and that was enough.

He'd been certain, in her last moments, that she would think of her family. (After all, they had been there too, hadn't they?) But she was thinking of him. And she was smiling. He wished he could understand why.

* * *

_I won't forget you, Mom. I promise._

_Go now, Ani. And don't look back._

* * *

It wasn't because he loved her. Even now, he still could not admit that to himself, and in the end he found it almost didn't matter.

It was because she had seen him cry, and had kissed away his tears. Because to her, at least, he was human.

The lightsaber glowed brilliant red between them, insatiable. It cried out for blood. He did not think it cared whose the blood was.

Padmé was still smiling. He knew that she was waiting to die.

He turned away from her and spun to face his master.

* * *

_And if I die? Will you forget me, too?_

* * *

The Sith Master was the greatest their Order had ever seen. He wielded the Force like an extension of his will, and when his will was wholly focused, he was unstoppable.

It was obvious that he had been expecting his apprentice's rebellion for some time. They both knew that Vader, like every Sith before him, must eventually betray his master and take his place. But they also both knew that he was not ready.

But Vader had one advantage. He was fighting to kill. But he was not fighting to survive.

* * *

_His name was Penu Chadisk, and I killed him._

* * *

It was a strange thing that he could never quite remember how the battle had gone. He thought perhaps it had not happened in sequence at all, but in fragments, in flashes of a lightsaber between intervals of darkness.

He remembered his Master's disgust, remembered the clash of red on red and the blackness in between, the hiss and the too-close singe of energy against his tunic, his skin, his bone, the strange clarity of the moment. _I will lose my arm, but it won't matter. _He was not sure how he had managed not to lose the arm, but he did remember the sound of Padmé's angry scream and the crashing of something against the far wall, shards flying. She'd smashed his most priceless vase, but that wouldn't matter, either.

He remembered dancing in and out, flashes of light and shadow, and knowing that nothing mattered, except the one thing.

And then there was a fire, but it was blue, and it was inside of him, in his bones, and something was terribly constricted in his chest, and he couldn't breathe. He thought his Master was laughing, but he couldn't be sure, because something was roaring in his ears, and there were too many voices, and every one of them was saying something different.

He had almost forgotten what pain felt like—he'd become immune to it. But the fire was in his blood, and now he remembered.

Then there was a strange hollow _thunk_, and the fire disappeared. He looked up (but he did not remember having fallen) and there was a vibroblade blossoming from the darker black blood-field in his Master's robe. Without thinking he _reached_, and his lightsaber (when had he lost it?) flew up from where it had fallen and buried itself in his Master's heart.

There was an explosion of blue fire and blackness, and then he was falling.

* * *

_I remember there was a boy with blue eyes who dreamed of freeing the slaves._

* * *

He woke to the feeling of raindrops on his face and the sound of his own harsh breathing. He blinked sluggishly, trying to focus through the pain of his breath, and it took him some time to realize that the droplets were not rain at all, but Padmé's tears. His head was cradled in her lap, and she was crying soundlessly behind the veil of her hair.

He tried to reach for her, but found that it hurt far too much to move.

He managed to turn his eyes, and saw that the vibroblade was lying by her side, red with blood. He stared at it. And then he smiled.

The blade had pierced his Master's chest, and his Master's blood stained it to the hilt. But he knew that, though no blade had touched him, the blood staining it was also his own.

Padmé had succeeded in killing him after all. And she didn't even realize it.

He smiled up at her, wanting to tell her something, but it was too late.

The door into the hallway swished open, and there was the sound of a man running. Padmé leapt to her feet, eyes wild, tears scattering, and reached for his one remaining Alderaanian vase on its pedestal near the wall. Vader wondered vaguely why she did not reach for the vibroblade, but it did not really seem to matter.

A moment latter he heard a man's muffled cry of surprise, followed by a crash and the lighter, more searing sounds of glass piercing flesh, and a woman's scream of pain. But he couldn't see anything, and he was too tired to reach out with his senses.

And then there was a man standing over him, lightsaber drawn and extended at his throat, its blue flame burning away what little air he managed to draw into his damaged lungs. Vader wanted to laugh, because it was so utterly ridiculous that it should end this way, but his laughter came out as a gurgle and the spatter of blood.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood above him, waiting. But he did not strike. For a moment, Vader wondered why. And then he realized that Padmé was there, crouched protectively over him, and that she was telling Kenobi he would have to kill her first.

Vader could not speak, but he didn't need to. He caught her eye and knew that she understood. He had not saved her from the Sith only to watch her die at the hands of the Jedi.

But she did not seem inclined to listen. She didn't move.

Kenobi seemed to reach a decision. He raised his hand, calling on the Force to push Padmé aside. Vader would have been angry, but he was too focused on keeping his breath going long enough to see this last development. For he had noticed what Kenobi had not.

Sabé was standing behind the Jedi. There was a long gash around her right eye, and the blood had matted her lids together. Vader watched as she raised a blaster and planted it squarely against the back of Kenobi's head.

"Put away the saber, Kenobi, and back away," she said. Her voice was low, dangerous, made only more so by the evident pain lurking beneath her sharpness.

Kenobi did as she said, and Vader closed his eyes, focusing on the gasping rhythm of his blood-soaked breath. Not much longer now.

The last thing he heard was Sabé's iron-hard, "And now, Kenobi, you're going to com a medic," punctuated by Padmé's quiet sobs. He wanted to tell her not to cry, that it didn't really matter, but he couldn't open his eyes.

And then there was no more sound—even the voices were silent—and he was falling away into enveloping blackness.

* * *

_Next chapter: Dooku and Jocasta do some research, Palo and Riveth need answers, and Kitster plays his trump card…_


	10. Dea Ex Machina

Note: Sorry for the long delay, and thanks for your patience. Also, if you're following this story, please check out my fic "Katabasis," which is a series of shorts that act as prequels to this fic. There's some important backstory in them, such as why Riveth doesn't talk and some background on Anakin and his mother. Thanks, and enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter IX: Dea Ex Machina**

"Why didn't you?"

Anakin shook himself, brought back to the present by a voice that was not Padmé's. He was mildly surprised to see that it was Barriss Offee who had spoken. She was crouched down opposite him, her arms folded about her knees, regarding him with an unreadable expression that might have been anything from revulsion to pity. He couldn't remember what she might have been asking about.

"Why didn't I what?" he asked, blinking at her.

"You said that you were supposed to kill Senator Amidala," Barriss reminded him, her tone somehow both hard and gentle at once. "Why didn't you?"

He stared at her for a moment, then looked quickly away, turning his gaze on the opposite wall but not really seeing anything. His fingers fidgeted with the edges of his sleeves.

"I suppose," he said quietly, "it was because she'd seen me cry."

He could feel the eyes of both Jedi on him, but he continued to stare straight ahead. There was a long, pregnant silence, and it was clear the Jedi expected him to say something more. He did not.

"Not because you loved her, then?" Obi-Wan Kenobi asked finally.

Anakin released a breath and turned back to face the Jedi. "I could say that," he said, "but it wouldn't be exactly true."

* * *

The last time Kitster Banai had seen his best friend, they had both been seven years old. He remembered the day clearly—it had been bright and hot, as all days were on Tatooine, but with a peculiar texture to the air, a certain roughness to the light, that said a sandstorm was coming soon, probably by evening. The danger was not immediate, however, and so when Kitster's master let him off work a bit early, he and his friend dashed off to Lorna's stand together. They had only enough money for one ruby bliel, so they split it, perched together on a pair of mismatched stools beside a flimsy table, taking turns sipping from a single straw.

Kitster remembered a strange hollowness to the moment, as though it were somehow outside of time. They'd been uneasy, the faint rattling of the sand against the metal legs of their stools sounding too loud in their ears. Neither knew exactly what was coming, except that Kitster was being sent to Mos Eisley for a week, and the thought of that week was cold and brittle in their stomachs.

The storm came and raged and died out, and in the morning it was gone, and Kitster went to Mos Eisley. The cold and fragile feeling in his gut should have dissolved when he returned a week later, but instead it grew ragged around the edges, like an old frayed leg wrapping passed down through too many hands.

Kitster returned to find Anakin gone, and nearly half of his other friends, as well. Shmi said that an old Jedi had come and freed them all, and was taking them back to Coruscant to find a better life. She said that Anakin was going to be a Jedi. Kitster knew that meant he would never see his friend again, and he cursed whatever luck had made him miss his greatest chance for freedom.

Nevertheless, Kitster could truly say that his friendship with Anakin Skywalker had defined his life. It was on Anakin's fourteenth birthday that Kitster first heard that the Jedi had been declared enemies of the state. There were darker whispers, too, whispers about "assassinations" and "purges" and "empire." And Kitster had lived long enough on Tatooine to know what these things meant.

He vowed that he would live for both of them.

* * *

Something was off about her patient.

Physically, the Sith was healthy and almost fully recovered. His lungs had healed beautifully, better than Barriss had hoped considering the extent of the damage. He'd regained most of the weight he had lost in those first uncertain months, and his heart rate, while unusually high, was within the parameter of health. The high heart rate worried Barriss, but she could find no physical cause for it.

Anakin was sitting rather stiffly on the bed, his shirt laid out neatly beside him, and ignoring her intensely. He appeared to be focused on his datapad, on the lines of code streaming across the small screen, and she noticed that he had actually managed to decrypt about five lines during the course of her examination. But his focus was almost too complete, the kind of forced concentration she might have expected to see in a youngling who very much wanted his master to believe he was studying.

If he'd been anyone else, she might have laughed at him. As it was, she simply returned the bioscanner to its place on her belt.

The blythol patch didn't seem to have had any effect on his scar, but she hadn't really expected it to. It had been a last resort, something to do so she could at least say she'd tried. Not that Anakin would likely have cared either way. It was the principle of the thing, and if she didn't cling to her principles, what else would she have? (There was Master Luminara lying stretched out on the ground, face slackened and graceless, and that didn't bear thinking on.)

She shook her head and told Anakin that there wasn't anything more she could do about the scar. He didn't bother looking at her; he simply grunted in disinterest and kept his eyes fixed steadily on the datapad.

It was just one more scar, after all. She supposed he must be used to them by now.

Since Anakin didn't seem to be particularly communicative today, Barriss turned to Obi-Wan, who sat motionless against the opposite wall, looking vaguely uncomfortable. His eyes were trained on the Sith with almost the same focus of intensity that Anakin spared for his datapad. Barriss felt as though she were missing something.

She followed Obi-Wan's eyes to the livid red scar blossoming across the Sith's abdomen. It was about the size of a large Mirial melon, discolored and ridged over with too-smooth skin. A burn scar, obviously, and she knew that Obi-Wan knew as well as she did how the Sith had gotten it. Kenobi had never seemed like the squeamish type. It must be the knowledge that had him looking so uncomfortable.

She stepped across the room, stopped in Obi-Wan's line of sight, and waited. His eyes met hers almost instantly (glad, perhaps, of something else to look at), and she read the question in them.

"His heart rate is unusually high," Barriss said quietly. "He hasn't been pushing himself too hard? Exercising?"

"No," Obi-Wan replied just as quietly, eyeing Anakin with thinly veiled suspicion. "He's done nothing but decryptions for the past five days, so far as I know. You might ask Master Windu or Master Mundi, though."

Barriss nodded, her mind once again listing off all the possibilities. There was one that made the most sense, but it was not something her medical expertise could offer any help with.

As though he'd read her mind (but he couldn't, could he?), Anakin looked up from his datapad at last and offered her a smirk. "Don't look so worried, Doc. You already know exactly what's wrong with me."

* * *

"I wonder if he even remembers."

The words were quiet, almost curious, but more resigned than anything. Kitster didn't look up as he spoke them, and the fingers of his left hand continued absently drawing patterns in the spilled _tzai_ on the counter in front of him.

Beside him, Riveth shifted, but his hands said nothing. Kitster's mother shifted her mug between her hands, white-knuckled and silent. At last Palo let out a slow breath and said, almost gently, "I don't think we can count on that, Kit. Padmé didn't seem to know."

Kitster sighed. "So he doesn't remember."

"Or he chooses not to tell anyone," Palo said darkly.

Riveth's hands moved in the air. _Yes_, he said. _Perhaps he does not even tell himself._

"Then we'll have to be the ones to tell him," Kitster's mother said. "If we begin the story, maybe he'll be able to complete it." She didn't look at any of them as she spoke, but her hands twisted back and forth on her nearly full mug of _tzai_.

Kitster took her work-lined hands and pressed them between his own. "He'll remember, Mom," he said in a tone that allowed for no possibility of failure. "We'll make him remember."

* * *

There were few things that annoyed Jocasta more than the discovery that her Archives were incomplete.

Of course, that had been a common enough discovery in the recent months. Much of the material once housed in the Archives had been destroyed during the years of Palpatine's reign, and some of it was irreplaceable. But she'd learned to accept that. Though she knew some might disagree with her, she supposed that the loss of those materials was really one of the least terrible. Images of the children lying haphazardly strewn across the halls of the Temple hovered at the back of her consciousness, and she pushed them roughly away.

It would not do to think of them when she was looking for information on their murderer.

Unfortunately, her Archives contained very little information on the Sith. She knew this was partly due to Palpatine's efforts. But what was worse was her certainty that the Jedi had never possessed much information on the Sith even before the Purges. Her Archives had lost very little on this topic, and that rankled.

Perhaps Yan had been right when he said that he had long ago read everything of interest to him in her Archives. But she would never tell him so.

Unfortunately, it now seemed that Yan was her only recourse if she wanted to find the information she needed. As she raised her hand to press the entry chime on his door, she was still trying to think of the least humiliating way to ask. She wasn't certain there was one.

She heaved a sigh of distaste as the door swept aside, revealing Yan's already smug face. The sacrifices she was willing to make for knowledge.

* * *

"You're asking the wrong person, you know."

It wasn't what she hade expected Yan to say. She didn't know what she had expected, exactly, but the fact that Yan was not gloating was, in her view, extremely suspicious.

"Oh? And who should I be asking, then?"

Yan favored her with one of his sardonic smiles, the sort that made nearly everyone feel instantly inferior. But that smile had stopped working on her years ago. She simply raised an eyebrow at him in silent challenge.

"Why, the Sith, of course," he said at last.

Jocasta laughed. "So that's why you've been so interested in him," she said. Her tone was light, but there was truth behind her words. "I thought there had to be a reason."

Yan merely shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "But neither my studies nor your Archives can offer any example of a Sith turning from the Dark in the past. He is the best source we have."

"There's one thing you don't seem to be considering, Yan," she said, gazing at him sharply. He tilted his head in silent question. "Lack of evidence can often be a form of evidence itself. What if the Council is right? Perhaps there are no other instances of a Sith turning because it really is impossible."

He turned away from her in an uncharacteristic show of vulnerability that told her more than his words ever could.

"Yes," he said softly. "That is a possibility, of course." But when he looked back at her, there was a knowing smile on his face. "But tell me, Jocasta, do you really believe that? You were quick enough to take his case before."

And now she had to look away. Images of children bled against the backs of her eyelids. But somehow, those images became entangled with the figure of the Sith as he had appeared when she first saw him—asleep, curled against the wall like a cornered animal. Or a child. And she returned to her earlier thought, that he really couldn't be much more than twenty.

There was no honest way to answer Yan's question.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I suppose I'm like you. I need to know more."

* * *

Over the course of the past five days, in the back of his mind, Obi-Wan had been growing progressively more nervous. It was something in the way the Sith held himself, in the way he did things and, maybe more importantly, in the way he didn't do them. Everything was too…quiet. For the past five days there had been nothing but the sound of keys tapping, furtive suspicious glances, and the uncertain sense of something else in the room, hidden, locked away and screaming behind carefully constructed walls. He didn't know what it was, but he'd spent long enough running to know that it was dangerous.

And now the Sith claimed that Barriss knew exactly what was wrong with him, but Knight Offee wasn't saying anything. Obi-Wan sensed that he was missing something, and he didn't like the feeling.

He reflected woefully that in some ways life had been much easier when the Sith was trying to kill him.

Or perhaps it was just Vader's talk of ghosts that was getting to him.

"How do you do it, Doc?" the Sith asked suddenly. He was looking intently and rather oddly at Barriss, but Obi-Wan couldn't be certain what his expression held. Barriss looked equally confused by the question.

"You're a healer," Vader added, head tilted slightly to the left in an almost comical pose of curiosity. His words were directed at Barriss, but his eyes shifted back and forth between the two of them. "But you're also a Jedi, and that means you've killed. How do you do it?"

To Obi-Wan's surprise, Barriss bit her lip and looked away. She seemed disturbed by the question, and he considered answering it himself—_we only kill when necessary, we only kill those who deserve it, we only kill in defense_—but he didn't know quite how to phrase it, and before he could think of anything, Barriss surprised him by answering herself.

"I try not to think about it," she mumbled, still not looking at anyone.

Obi-Wan watched the Sith worry at the edges of his sleeves again. It was a habit he had almost grown used to by now, but somehow the idea of a Sith indulging in nervous habits still unsettled him.

"How old were you, the first time?" Vader asked.

"I was twelve," Barriss said softly. Obi-Wan thought that she looked young and lost, and that her visit should have ended several minutes ago.

"And do the ghosts ever bother you?" Vader asked, still playing with his sleeves and studiously ignoring Obi-Wan.

Barriss glanced at Obi-Wan, though, and he saw the uncertainty in her face. "Sometimes," she whispered in answer to the Sith's question. But she didn't look away from Obi-Wan. He thought of Kel Dor pirates and sudden ends, and wondered why the ghosts had never troubled him.

"What are you doing, Vader?" he demanded, and it was just enough to make them both finally look at him.

But the Sith just shrugged at him. "She wanted to know what was wrong with me," he said. He seemed to reflect for a moment, then added, mostly to himself, "They never used to bother me before. I don't know why they've started now."

Barriss remained silent, her eyes once more trained on the floor, but Obi-Wan sensed an unusual dread and certainty about her. He didn't know what the Sith was about with his talk of ghosts and age, but it was time to put a stop to it.

"How much do you have of that file?"

Vader leveled an almost lazy glare at him. "Nearly all." His mouth turned up in a mocking expression of non-concern. "And how old were you, Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan still wasn't certain what the Sith was up to, and unlike Barriss, he wasn't willing to play his game. He said nothing.

But he was afraid that might be answer enough.

* * *

Kenobi didn't answer, but Anakin hadn't expected him to. They were not really on answering terms. He favored the Jedi with a quiet snort and turned back to his datapad. He barely noticed as Barriss made a last few notes on her datapad and left his cell without a word to either of them. The data streaming across his screen cast the world in an eerie shade of blue that reminded him distantly of something he'd seen many, many years ago, so long ago now that he could not even remember what it was.

The decryptions were becoming easier as he progressed: although there was no discernable pattern to Palpatine's encryptions, there was something about them that made sense at a gut level, something that became almost automatic if you just spent enough time with them. And so in the space of five days, Anakin had managed to decrypt the first two files and much of the third. The results were disappointing, but he had not really expected otherwise.

The first file was a record of expenses. Had Palpatine been alive, this document alone would have been enough for several convictions, but as things were, it served little immediate good.

The second and third files were essentially lists of names—catalogues of prisoners and the facilities in which they had been interned. They, too, were of no immediate value. All of the Imperial prisons had been emptied months ago, even those which had been kept most secret. And if they had not been…well, it would be far too late now.

The files Anakin had been set to decrypt would ultimately have value only as historical records. Some day, perhaps soon, they would appear in a museum commemorating the worst horrors of the Empire, the sort of museum that purports to remember so that the future will not be like the past.

It wasn't enough. But he was trying not to think about that now.

Time passed. He didn't know how much, and that bothered him. He'd once had an almost prescient sense of time, its lengths and distances and speeds, but now it seemed that too had been lost in the blue fire.

He glanced briefly at Kenobi, perched somewhat awkwardly in the room's single chair and perusing his own datapad. Although the Jedi had spent the first two days watching Anakin continuously, they'd fallen into a routine fairly quickly, and now Kenobi spent most of his time at his own work, only sparing Anakin the occasional glance every few minutes. There was not, after all, much to see.

As the last of the decrypted data floated across his screen, Anakin released a breath and stood, drawing the Jedi's attention. He stepped forward and offered Kenobi the datapad with an exaggerated flourish. The Jedi accepted it and scanned over its contents quickly, not quite able to hide his disappointment. Then without a word to Anakin he reached for his comlink to contact the Jedi Council.

Anakin was not really surprised. Neither of them had spoken to the other in nearly four days, but for Barriss' brief visit.

It was almost a relief when the members of the Jedi Council arrived to collect the newly decrypted datacard. Kenobi handed it to a Bith whose name Anakin couldn't place, and the Bith disappeared once more, as soundless as he had come. But the rest of the Jedi Council remained where they were.

Anakin eyed them warily. It hadn't yet been a week since the Chancellor's visit, and he wasn't expecting another visitor so soon.

"Get dressed," Mace Windu ordered, tossing his Sith blacks onto the chair. So it was a political visit, then. And that meant he'd have to wait another week before seeing Padmé.

"As you say, Master Windu," he drawled, and waited for Windu to look away first.

His eyes followed the Jedi with distaste as they filed out of his small cell. The moment the door swished closed behind them, he stripped out of the rough brown clothing they'd given him to wear in his cell and redressed quickly in his old customary black clothing. He noticed it had been patched in a few places, and this time someone had sewn all of the pockets closed. The thought made him laugh.

The Jedi gave him very little time to dress, and then they were crowding into his cell again, surrounding him and prodding him out into the hallway. He allowed himself to be led docilely enough. He'd long ago decided there wasn't much point in fighting (and there were those words whispering in Padmé's voice in the back of his mind that said he deserved this), and besides, he was curious. It was possible that they were taking him to see Padmé—they'd had their visits in the great meeting chambers before—but after the much more informal style of her last visit he didn't think it likely.

He was directed to a smaller meditation room off one of the main halls. The room was empty of furniture and dimly lit, its walls dancing with strange shadows. The Jedi ushered him into its center, filling in behind him in a rough crescent.

Four humans were waiting for him at the far side of the room, but he did not know any of them. Two of them, a dark-skinned man with a thin scar faint across his left cheek and a very pale bearded man, appeared to be the leaders, or at least the most eager to speak. The dark-skinned man appeared somewhat nervous but resolute, while his pale friend's dark eyes rested on Anakin with a strange mixed emotion he had seen before only from Padmé.

He shifted lightly on the balls of his feet, getting a feel for the room and his place in it. The two men who seemed to be the leaders tensed at his movement and glanced nervously between themselves. They were harmless, clearly.

It was the other two who most interested Anakin.

A young man with shadowed eyes and warm brown skinstood beside an older woman, half supporting her with his arm and half holding her back. When Anakin entered the room the woman drew a sharp, ragged breath, her hand flying to her mouth. It was a tan, work-worn hand, and Anakin could not recall ever having seen it before. He watched as the young man beside her wrapped his arm more securely around her, and wondered if he had killed someone this woman loved.

He watched her intently, shifting his stance and tilting his head just slightly, but her eyes remained fixed on him. There was horror in them, as he might have expected, but also something else, something warm and organic that might have been guilt. The young man at her side—her son, Anakin guessed—wore much the same expression, and he too met Anakin's eyes unabashed. He was the only one of the four who looked somewhat familiar, but Anakin couldn't remember where he might have seen him before. He glanced between the woman and her son and their shared postures of grief and wondered if it was her other child that he had killed.

The dark skinned man cleared his throat and raised his chin, drawing Anakin's attention again. The scar on his cheek shone faintly in the dim light, and he still seemed nervous, but his voice was strong. "My name is Palo Gvanish," he began, but before he could say anything further, Anakin cut him off in surprise.

"Gvanish? The artist?"

The man looked momentarily startled, but he recovered quickly. "Yes, that's right." He didn't smile, but his stance became less rigid. "I'm here as a representative of the Artists United for Freedom. We'd like to discuss your case."

Behind him, Anakin heard several of the Jedi Masters murmuring amongst themselves and noted with some interest that they were more surprised than he was. He snorted. "Padmé sent you, didn't she?"

"No," the familiar looking young man said with quiet vehemence. "She didn't." Something in his tone kept Anakin from making any response.

"Our organization advocates for political prisoners throughout the galaxy," Palo continued as though there had been no interruption. "We've teamed with the law firm Fropp and Quig to represent those imprisoned for political reasons. Senator Amidala feels that your imprisonment here may be of an unjust nature, and we felt it was our duty to investigate her claims."

Anakin eyed the four of them—stance, expression, the way they stood in relation to one another. Palo with his attempt at calm but with the movement of his throat and the small beads of sweat on his hands that betrayed him, and the way he stayed close to the pale man, as though drawing some sort of strength from his nearness. The pale man himself, with his air of utter silence and his unblinking eyes that had moved beyond terror long ago. The woman, supported by her son but with eyes only for Anakin. She unnerved him—he wasn't sure whether her look was one of longing or hatred. And then there was her son. He held himself like one who knows he is ultimately in control of the situation, and all the cards rest with him.

Anakin smiled to himself. All this talk about Padmé and political prisoners and freedom was a reason, perhaps, but it was not the most important one. The woman and her son had some other purpose, but he would need to deal with the other two first.

"There's a warehouse in the lower districts," he said, for the first time looking at Palo as he spoke. "I can give you the codes. I wasn't sure who to tell at first, but you'll know what to do with it."

He watched Palo's brows draw together in confusion and the pale man's hands begin to move in the air before stilling again, as though he'd thought better of whatever motion he'd been about to make.

"I don't know if Padmé told you," he said, giving Palo a tight-lipped smile, "but I've always appreciated your art."

Palo's eyes widened in sudden understanding, and Anakin added mildly, "If you have a datapad, I'll give you the coordinates and the codes."

The silent pale man retrieved a datapad from his pocket, and Anakin entered the necessary information and passed it back to him just as silently. The artist and his friend exchanged a significant glance, then turned to the strangely familiar young man.

"Go on," he told them. "We'll be all right. It might even… We'll give you a com call when we're done here."

The two men nodded, and as they passed by Palo placed a hand on the woman's shoulder and whispered "Good luck" to both of them. It was just loud enough for Anakin hear and to consider with a grim smile that he'd been right.

The Jedi gathered behind Anakin parted just enough to let Palo and his pale nameless friend out of the small room, and then Anakin was alone with the woman and her son, and the ever-present Jedi at his back like ghosts.

The young man whose face Anakin still couldn't place stepped forward slightly. His eyes were on a level with Anakin's chin, and he seemed surprisingly collected.

"My name is Kitster Banai," he said with a smile that was astonishingly genuine. Before Anakin could ask, he added, "Yes, the actor. I'm your—that is, we knew each other when we were kids. On Tatooine. You may not remember, though."

Anakin eyed him without expression, and some of Kitster's confidence seemed to evaporate. But he did not step back. He reached for the woman's hand and drew her forward to stand beside him. Anakin could sense the woman's fear, but she held her gaze steady on his, and there was something unbreakable behind the sadness in her eyes. For a moment, she reminded him sharply of Padmé.

"And who is she?" he asked, inclining his head toward the woman. He watched in surprise as the hand at her side reached out, almost of its own accord, to touch his face, but drew back just before he could feel its warmth. He watched her face and wondered why he felt so suddenly cold.

"This is Shmi Skywalker," Kitster said softly. "Your mother."


	11. Anagnorisis

Note: Thanks again for your patience everybody! Also, if you haven't checked out Katabasis, you might want to do so. It's a series of one-shot prequels to Anabasis. You can find the story on my profile page.

Note on the chapter title: _Anagnorisis_ is a Greek word meaning "recognition." It is a technical term in both tragedy and the genre of meditation, where it signifies a sudden revelation or a collapse in old ways of seeing the world, accompanied by new insight.

Thanks to Le1a Naberr1e for the beta!

* * *

**Chapter X: Anagnorisis**

For several long moments, there was nothing but a loud, deadening silence. And then Anakin laughed, such a laugh that even Kitster took a few steps back.

"No, she's not," Anakin said. "My mother is dead. I watched her die."

The woman beside Kitster bit her lip hard enough to produce a trickle of blood, and he watched as her face crumpled up like a dead thing. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but all that came out was a flimsy whisper. "My Ani…" It sounded frail and bleakly certain. Anakin found himself remembering the dead look in Melee's eyes when she finally stopped screaming.

Kitster, though, regarded him levelly, his eyes completely unreadable. "What do you remember, Anakin?" he asked.

_What do you remember?_

Anakin stared at the calm, intense young man with his scarless skin and his unblinking eyes full of the knowledge of things. He had the sudden drowning feeling that he'd seen those eyes before.

_What do you remember?_

And without thinking, he found himself answering.

"I remember it was dark," he said, his eyes not leaving Kitster Banai's face. "There was a man, and a lot of shouting, and I remember my mother screaming. I was hiding under the bench in the dark, and she was crying, and there was blood." He leveled his gaze at the woman by Kitster's side and added pointedly, "It's the last thing I remember about her."

"Ani," the woman who claimed to be his mother said, and he twitched. That was _Padmé's _name for him. No one else had ever called him that.

"Ani," the woman said again. "What you remember, it…it did happen." She looked away for a moment, but when she turned back to him, her face held only sadness. "But that was more than a year before you left."

"No," Anakin said. It was a non-reaction, a flat and toneless denial.

_What do you remember? _the voice asked again, but he couldn't be certain whether Kitster had spoken again or whether the words were only in his own mind.

"I'm sorry, Ani," the woman whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She looked old, and sad, and strangely beautiful, and for the second time he was reminded oddly of Padmé—Padmé as she'd stood on the day of the slave auction, proud and high-headed and absolutely terrified. It occurred to him that Padmé had reminded him vaguely of his mother in those moments, but that thought was too much. He pushed it roughly away, turning from his visitors and crossing to the room's left wall in two quick strides. He was aware of the Jedi Council closing behind him, aware of their nervous, ready energy, but he paid them no mind. The wall would do, if only because there was nothing else in the room.

The crunching sound of his fist against the wall was oddly satisfying, and the look and feel of the blood on his knuckles was… He didn't know what, exactly. But it felt right. It had been a long time since he'd seen blood. He looked down at his hand and realized that the headache was gone.

But the woman had been bleeding, hadn't she? Just a little, when she bit her lip. He didn't turn to look at her again, but the image of her was stark and clear before his eyes. She was… He tried to stop the thought, but his mind was spiraling now, spiraling and strangely clear with the pain. She didn't look familiar but she _felt_… And if she was…

He became aware of hands on his arms and torso, and at the same time the spiraling in his mind came to a sudden stop in a rush of sound. The Jedi were surrounding him, pulling him back from the wall and forcing his arms behind his back. In the same instant he registered the woman's cry of surprise and fear. She was worried for him? But that was ridiculous. Surely she must know that he'd been through much worse than a few bloody knuckles.

He ignored the restraining hands of the Jedi and tried to lunge forward, to see the woman more clearly, to study every pore, every hair, every slight movement of her hands. He was still absolutely certain he'd never seen her before.

But there was that spinning in his head, and the voice that might have been Kitster's, might have been his own. _What do you remember?_

He didn't know. And it was too much.

"Ani," the woman whispered again. "Oh my Ani. I'm so sorry." And she was crying, quiet sobs that tried to hide themselves in the dark.

He didn't remember his mother's face, but he did remember the sound of her tears.

Anakin stared at her, all of the voices in his mind growing suddenly hushed and distinct. He'd thought she was dead. He'd _watched _her die. She was supposed to be dead.

But she wasn't, and if it was true that he'd lived with her a full year after he watched her die (because no matter what she said, he _remembered _how she had died), then that meant…

"You sent me with him."

The woman—Shmi, he wouldn't call her anything else—looked surprised.

"Yes," she said softly, her voice raw. "I sent you with the Jedi. I didn't know— But then there were whispers of purges and we thought…" Her voice broke, and she ended almost on a wail, "Oh Ani, what happened to you?"

Anakin's eyes traveled wildly across her face. There was undisguised fear there. She was telling the truth.

"The Jedi?"

Shmi nodded slowly. "Yes."

"The Jedi. You wanted me to be a Jedi." Anakin's voice had taken on a raw, knife-edged tone that made his guards glance at one another nervously and tighten their hold on his arms, but he was almost unaware of them. There was just the woman and her strange, terrible face and the _Jedi_.

And suddenly he couldn't stop laughing.

Something in a corner of his mind was desperately trying to remind him that he wasn't breaking yet, but he could hardly hear it over the din of the others. _What do you remember?_

And he did remember, in scraps and pieces and fragments of bone.

There had been a transport (a very nice one, he thought, but of a make he didn't recognize), and sand whirling all around him, and he'd been coughing, and he was going away, leaving the desert behind, going with this man to become, to become…

His laughter died in a sudden snarl. "You _sent me with him_!"

The woman who claimed to be his mother jumped back, her face wild with fear and that strange organic guilt, her body trembling violently. Kitster too jumped, and for the first time the look of recognition in his eyes disappeared.

The walls of the small room began to shake.

In the morass of hands and nervous bodies circled around him, Anakin caught sight of Mace Windu shouting urgently into his comlink, but the roaring in his head prevented him from hearing anything. Shmi was crying softly again, and it was too much. He looked at her with a sudden clarity and was surprised to find that he had never hated anyone more.

And then there was a faint prick against his spine, and he spun around with a growl, the Jedi scattering around him, and found himself glaring into the wide blue eyes of Barriss Offee.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and just before he dissolved into the shadows he saw the syringe in her hand.

* * *

The warehouse was a nondescript duracrete structure several levels below one of Coruscant's most popular business districts. It had been kept up well—there were signs of patching in the duracrete, and a few weather stains here and there. It appeared to be no more than a simple, well maintained storage facility.

Obi-Wan was instantly suspicious.

He'd never seen the Sith hideaway in the Works, although Master Dooku had described it to him once, back when the Jedi were still searching for the identity of the Sith Lord, before everything fell in pieces. And there'd been something…fitting, almost, about Dooku's description. Not like this. This building was clean and well lighted outside, and in an almost-respectable neighborhood. It wasn't making any effort to hide.

"Well, Master Kenobi?" Palo asked, peering over his shoulder. "Is it safe?"

Obi-Wan scowled at the building. "It seems safe enough, out here at least." He took the datapad Vader had provided out of his pocket and made his way carefully to the warehouse's one small, less-than-imposing door. The codes were surprisingly complex, which did nothing to relieve his mood.

At last the door slid aside, and Obi-Wan peered into brown, empty darkness. The air escaping through the door smelled musty and used. He sensed nothing.

"Follow me in," he said to the two men behind him. "Stay close, and don't make any sudden movements."

He still didn't sense anything, and so they stood just inside the entrance for several minutes, letting their eyes adjust to the dark. The room they found themselves in was surprisingly small, a foyer to the main body of the warehouse, perhaps. It was rectangular and pale, relieved only by a pair of finely upholstered chairs against the far wall, with a dark wooden table between them. In the center of the table, clearly an item for display, was a large Alderaanian crystal vase, etched in a geometric pattern. To the left of the chairs there was a door.

Obi-Wan approached the door, skirting widely around the table (he knew better than to examine the vase), and entered the codes Vader had marked for the second door. These were even more complex than the main entry codes. Behind him there was a faint hint of movement, and without turning he said sharply, "Don't touch the vase." He spared a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Palo stepping guiltily away.

"I don't think—" Palo said, but Obi-Wan cut him off almost before he'd begun.

"This place reminds me too much of the Temple," he said, half to himself. "We'll all be better off if we don't touch anything." And without waiting for a response he turned back to the door and the codes. He could hear the two men moving behind him, but sensed that they were keeping well away from the vase.

"Riveth wants to know what happened," Palo said softly. "In the Temple."

Obi-Wan shook his head, but his concentration remained on the codes. "When we retook the Temple, the whole place was trapped. Some of them we couldn't even sense in the Force. We lost five good knights that way."

He felt a hand on his left shoulder, and turned in surprise. Riveth was there, his hands now moving in the air. Obi-Wan didn't need to hear Palo's "I'm sorry," to know what the poet had said.

He nodded, accepting the apology, and gave the two a rueful smile. "We learned to be especially wary of artifacts and objects of art." A look of understanding passed between Palo and Riveth at this, and Obi-Wan sighed. "When this door opens," he told them, "I want you to stay behind me and follow my direction. Don't let yourselves be distracted."

The two nodded at him, and Palo said, "Of course, Master Kenobi."

Obi-Wan restrained another sigh. He had a bad feeling about this.

But there was no reason to delay any longer. And in spite of himself, Obi-Wan had to admit he was curious. His curiosity was always getting him into trouble.

He entered the last codes and the door slid aside with a certain slow drama that Obi-Wan suspected of being Vader's touch. Vader's master had also had a certain flair for the dramatic.

The room that was revealed was much larger than the entrance foyer, well-lighted and spacious and with the musty smell of a little-used collection room or a museum. The sense of space was broken up periodically by warm, bold lights that cast their intended objects into intense relief against a background of shadows.

And it was a museum, Obi-Wan realized. The room was filled, aisle upon aisle, with works of art—paintings, sculptures, holos, vases, even a few works for which he had no name. Obi-Wan didn't recognize most of the works, but what he did recognize left him feeling cold. He remembered Vader's talk of ghosts and thought it more than a little uncanny.

Every one of the paintings and sculptures that he recognized was supposed to have been destroyed.

He sensed the utter stillness of the two men behind him, and in any other circumstances that might have been a warning. But the Sith had outsmarted him. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but this certainly was not it.

And so when Palo Gvanish moved suddenly, Obi-Wan reacted just a bit too slowly.

He heard Palo's startled, half-strangled gasp of recognition slightly after he'd begun to move, as though the room were playing tricks with echoes and silence. And he realized in the same breath that there was nothing he could do. If the place was trapped, any sudden reaction on his part would only make the situation worse.

And so he watched as Palo crossed the open space between light and shadows at an almost-run, his feet leading him to a sudden jerky stop before an image of a Gungan woman. The movement of his body displaced the pattern of light and shadows, and they settled again after he was gone, as though a fish had moved through water.

Nothing else happened.

They waited a few moments more, just to be certain, and then Riveth stepped out, somewhat more cautiously, and came to join his friend in the light that shone on the painting. Obi-Wan followed him, but kept somewhat back from the two men, allowing them their space.

This was one of the paintings he recognized.

It was an older style of art, worked out on canvas rather than a light screen, and seeing it now in person, he thought it was rather smaller than he might have imagined. A Gungan woman, radiant and unabashed, rising from the swamp with challenge in her eyes.

Obi-Wan hadn't exactly been following the art world for the last ten years, but even he had heard of the _Gungan Venus_. It was the work that had finally led to Palo's arrest.

"I never thought I would see her again," he heard Palo whisper to no one in particular, and he watched as Riveth wrapped an arm around the other man's shoulders. The two stood in silence together, gazing up at the Gungan woman's face, and Obi-Wan suddenly felt as though he were interrupting a private moment.

"He saved it," Palo was saying, his voice still somewhat dazed. "Why would he—?" Riveth's hands moved in the air, and Palo let out a shaky laugh. "Well, yes, I suppose there's that."

Obi-Wan coughed slightly, and Palo turned toward him, his face slightly flushed. "I'm very sorry, Master Kenobi," he said earnestly. "I didn't—"

Obi-Wan tried to smile and shrugged it off. "You know why he sent you here, then?"

Palo hesitated momentarily, but Riveth smiled, his hands moving in a rapid series of motions that Obi-Wan found utterly unintelligible. When he had finished speaking, his arm rested again on Palo's shoulder. The artist seemed to consider him, as though searching for something in his face, before turning back to Obi-Wan.

"Riveth thinks it's a gesture of reconciliation," he said. "Vader—Anakin—for whatever reason, he saved all of these works, and now he wants to return them to the public."

Obi-Wan stared at him. "Oh yes," he said at last. "Yes, that makes perfect sense. Certainly."

Once more he saw that look of hesitation on Palo's face, but all the artist said was, "Well, he did save them…"

There hadn't been any traps. But there were the overly complicated passcodes at the warehouse's two entrances, and Obi-Wan could guess easily enough what that meant. He just wished he knew what the Sith was planning with all of this.

"Yes," he said to Palo, "I suppose that's something."

* * *

The world seemed to freeze around Barriss, all of the Jedi surreally still as they watched Vader slump toward the floor with a faint groan. His eyes had already fallen shut, his face gone slack with the drug, and even Barriss couldn't seem to make herself move. It was the two humans in the center of the room who started forward and caught him, the young man catching at his torso and easing him toward the floor, the woman holding Vader's head in her lap, her fingers brushing tentatively across his face. A low keening sound escaped the woman's lips, and Barriss was reminded of the elegies for the dead sung on Mirial. She felt as though she were intruding on something intensely private.

But the question was hanging in the air, needing to be asked, and it was utterly impossible that she should ask either of Vader's visitors. It would have done little good in any case. They hadn't let themselves in.

She turned her back on the woman and her quiet elegy and faced the members of the Council, who were still gathered in their semi-circular posture of defense and enclosure. "What did you do to my patient?"

"Knight Offee," Master Mundi began in his kind tones, but Barriss, for the first time in her life, cut him off.

"With respect, Masters," she said, "I haven't spent the last eight months stabilizing a Sith Lord only to have to sedate him when he gets a couple of visitors. As his healer, I need to know what happened here, and I need to know if there's a risk of it happening again."

The masters glanced at one another uneasily, but at last Master Yoda nodded. His head inclining toward the woman who still held Vader's head in her lap, he said quietly, "Vader's mother, she is. Knew that, none of us did, when the Chancellor sent these visitors." He harrumphed softly and muttered, "Take it well, Vader did not."

Barriss stared at him, and then at the woman in the center of the room. The woman brushed Vader's hair gently back from his brow, her eyes intent on his face, and in his drug-sleep, the Sith almost seemed to welcome her touch.

"His…mother?" Barriss echoed.

She had never thought that a Sith Lord could have a mother. In truth, she hadn't thought much about the subject at all. The Sith were the ancient enemies of the Jedi, followers of the Dark Side who held no regard for peace or justice or the rights of other beings. She'd never wondered why that was. The last ten years hadn't exactly given her much opportunity.

And yet now here they were, the woman who was Vader's mother and the man who looked almost familiar—some sort of stage actor, wasn't he?—and Barriss was trying desperately not to think about Master Luminara or the boy in the fire.

"Need to debrief them, we will," Master Yoda said quietly, drawing her attention again.

"And you will need to see to his hand," Master Windu added, and Barriss nodded respectfully.

"I'd like to take him to the medbay," she said. "He'll be much easier to treat there, and I need to run some tests."

The Masters glanced at one another apprehensively, but Master Yoda simply nodded. "Take him now, you should," he said, gesturing to the center of the room, where Vader lay languid and strangely still, his head still cradled in the woman's lap.

Barriss took a deep breath and stepped forward, drawing the young man's attention. "I'm sorry," she said softly, "but I need to take him to the medbay. If you'd like to—"

"Actually," Master Windu cut in smoothly, "we'll need to speak with you and your mother in the Council Chambers. It would be best if you let Healer Offee tend to Va- him now."

The falter was only slight, and Master Windu recovered quickly, but Barriss could see in the young man's suddenly closed expression that he hadn't failed to notice. Still, all he said was, "Of course. Just give us a moment please." And he turned back to the woman crouched on the floor, touching her shoulder lightly. Although she hadn't seemed to register anything that had just been said, she looked up instantly at the young man's touch. "Kitster…" she whispered, but didn't seem to know what else she had wanted to say. Her face was like soft-carved wood.

"Come on, Mom," Kitster said softly. "Anakin's healer needs to see to him now."

The woman stared up at him in blank incomprehension for a moment, but when he squeezed her shoulder she bent again and shifted Vader's head out of her lap and onto the floor. Wordlessly she adjusted his limbs, her hands fluttering just over his body, and Barriss was reminded once more of a funerary rite. She had to look away.

"I'm sorry, Ani," she heard Vader's mother murmur again, and then Kitster was guiding her hesitantly toward the door. Barriss turned to watch them, unable to stop herself, and she noticed that neither the woman nor Kitster once looked back. They were ushered wordlessly out of the room by the Council, and Barriss was left alone with the unconscious Sith Lord.

She stared down at his unmoving face and realized that she had never thought of herself as having a mother, either.

* * *

He woke to whiteness and a sharp medical smell and the sound of his own breathing. He was lying on his back on a bed almost as uncomfortable as the one in his cell, but it smelled unhealthily clean. He could feel heavy bandages on his right hand and there was a pressure and straightness against his first two fingers. He remembered the pleasant crackling sound from before, and guessed that they must be splints of some kind. The rest of his body felt heavy and slow, as though he were drifting underwater. He couldn't feel so much as a tingle in his hand, which meant they must have given him something for the pain. And probably something else, too. He thought of the syringe in Barriss' hand and snorted to himself. He knew, better than most, what was done with needles.

The room around him echoed and reverberated and bounced off itself again—a large room, divided into many smaller half-partitioned sections. He didn't think he'd ever been in this room before. But then the Jedi had changed quite a lot of things about the palace when they retook it. There was a lot that he didn't remember.

His ears followed the sound of a door swishing aside. All of his other senses seemed to be fuzzy, presences indistinct and fragile in the Force, but his hearing was unaffected. Three people had entered the room, and he recognized them instantly by their step: the first with light footfalls and a gliding edge, aristocratic and fearless, the second soundless but for the reverberations, fast and sharp-edged, and the third slower and steadier, quiet in a calm way.

Padmé, Sabé, and…

"Doc," he greeted pleasantly without opening his eyes. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"The Masters didn't know what you would do," she said. There was a hint of regret in her voice, maybe, but no apology this time. "I had to sedate you."

Anakin snorted. "How long?"

"Five hours."

That would certainly have been enough time for the two artists to find the _Venus_, and if Barriss hadn't done anything more than sedate him, they must have managed to enter the codes right. That was a relief, at least.

He sniffed and sat up slowly, opening his eyes at last. They were still a little fuzzy from the drug, as he'd expected, but he could make things out well enough. The bed he was sitting on was pristine and antiseptic white, a match for the rest of the room. He was still wearing his Sith blacks, and it didn't feel as though they'd been moved, which was good. Maybe they really had left him to sleep for five hours.

Barriss was standing a few feet to the left of the bed, tensed up and uncertain, another syringe in her hand. He looked at the needle darkly and wondered what was in it this time. Over Barriss' shoulder he caught a glimpse of a row of transparisteel windows and the faces of the Jedi Council alert and silent, twelve hands resting on the lightsabers at their hips. Padmé was standing on the right side of the bed, much closer to him than Barriss, but even she looked uncertain.

Sabé stood in the middle of the room, laughing quietly to herself. "Well Boss," she said, "they're saying you finally cracked. I guess it can't be true, though, because I haven't heard that anybody's dead."

"Plenty of people are dead," Anakin said, but without much venom. Something in her casual abrasiveness made the spiraling in his head seem less dizzying. "And since when did they let you visit me, Five?"

She looked momentarily surprised that he'd called her that in front of all the Jedi, but she shrugged it off. "Since you cracked, I guess," she said.

"What happened, Anakin?" Padmé's voice was quietly demanding. Her hands were moving at her sides, almost touching him and then fluttering away. He watched them for a moment, fascinated with the movement and the way the skin lay over muscle and bone, and finally he snatched one of them in his own hand, if only to keep it still.

"Does it matter?" he murmured, bringing her hand to rest against his heart. "You're here now, and it hasn't even been a week."

"That's why it matters," Padmé said and pulled her hand back sharply. "Healer Offee said—"

"Why don't you ask my mother?" Anakin snapped, and everything went still.

"Anakin," Padmé said very softly, "I didn't know. I thought… You told me she was dead."

He studied her face. Her eyes were wide and adamant, and he saw in them the same fear that Sabé had voiced half-joking. She was telling the truth: she hadn't known.

His expression softened and he tried to stand, but thought better of it when all of the Jedi tensed behind their windows, and Barriss shifted slightly with her needle. He smiled pleasantly at them and sat back on the bed again, reaching for Padmé's hand instead. This time, she let him take it, and she didn't pull away.

"She was dead," he said, drawing slow circles on her palm. "I watched her die and I remember it."

"Is this woman lying, then?" Sabé asked. There was an edge to her voice that hinted at the other question which remained unasked.

"No," Anakin said slowly. His attention was wholly absorbed by Padmé's hand, and the strange frightened way she was looking at him. It was interesting, because she was never afraid of him. "No," he said again, "she was dead. But now she's not."

He watched Sabé and Padmé exchange a look, and Barriss shift the syringe in her hand.

"I suppose that's why Doc had to sedate me," he said, and smiled at the three of them. "I was thinking… Or maybe I wasn't. But she _was _dead, and now she's not, and nothing makes sense anymore. If she would just be dead again, maybe everything would go back to the way it used to be."

Padmé was looking at him oddly, and there was that fear in her eyes that he was still trying to understand. He didn't think she was afraid _of _him, exactly. Perhaps she was afraid for him, though he didn't know why.

"Anakin, you wouldn't…"

"No," he sighed. "No I—"

"I'm worried about you, Anakin," she said softly, bringing her hand to rest against his cheek. He sighed again and leaned into her touch, eyes closed and breathing slow.

"I'm sorry," he said. Her hand brushed softly across his face in reply, and he looked up at her again and said, "Come here."

She sat down very pointedly at his right side on the bed, taking his wrist between her hands, but he ignored that and everything else and pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder. She was warm and alive and she didn't at all remind him of his mother like this. She stiffened against him, and he could feel her surprise and her nervous energy in the Force. The Jedi Council was just beyond the transparisteel barrier, and Barriss was there with her needle.

"What did you do to your hand?" she asked with forced levity.

"I had a headache," he murmured carelessly and kissed her neck. He could feel the heat of her blush, but to his surprise she didn't reprimand him.

"Anakin," she said in a tone soft enough to be request (but he knew it was command), "look at me."

He kissed her once more before complying, but when he looked up she wasn't smiling. "Tell me what happened," she said in that same soft tone of command, clear and controlled and with no room for argument. She wasn't anything like his Master, of course, but the sense of command was similar enough, and he thought he might like that. It made it easier to think.

"I don't know," he said slowly, watching her face. "The Jedi never told me. But I had visitors." He paused, wondering how much the Jedi had already told her, and then shrugged. It didn't really matter anyway. "I met Gvanish. I didn't really get to talk to him, though—I had to send him away." He frowned.

"Had to?" Padmé asked, taking his uninjured hand between hers. "And where did you send him?"

A slow smile spread across Anakin's face. "To the underground. The _Venus _is there, and I thought he would be able to appreciate that."

Padmé stared at him. "The _Gungan Venus_? You—You saved it?"

"I thought I told you that," Anakin said breezily, but there was an almost conniving glint in his eyes.

In spite of herself, Padmé laughed. "You didn't, and you know it. I'm glad you saved it, though." And then her voice grew firmer and she said, "But you're avoiding the question, Anakin. What happened?"

He looked away, his eyes falling to his injured hand. The splints on the first two fingers were thin and metallic, the whole hand wrapped in tape and bacta. It had been a very long time since he'd used bacta.

He looked back at Padmé and grinned. "I'll tell you if you tell me why they really let you visit me."

An uncertain, almost evasive expression passed over her face, and he watched her exchange a glance with Sabé and Barriss. There was a moment of tense silence, and finally it was Sabé who answered.

"It's like I said, Boss," she said. "It's because you cracked."

Padmé glared at her. "They thought you might need something to…reestablish a sense of normality," she said hesitantly, and she didn't look at him as she spoke.

Anakin tried not to laugh and failed. It was something about the way Padmé looked almost demure, sitting beside him with her face down-turned and her voice uncertain.

"My mother's not dead," he said idly when she looked up at him again. "She's supposed to be, but she's not. And you know—" He paused, reaching out for her hand again and tracing the back of it in slow circles with his thumb. When he spoke again, his voice was suddenly hard and very cold. "She sent me with him." He looked up into her brown eyes (brown like his mother's, brown like desert rock and Melee's hair), and added, "She sent me with him because she thought he was a Jedi."

Padmé stared at him wordlessly. There was something blank and horrified in her eyes, and Anakin could feel something shifting between them. He stopped the motions of his thumb and clutched her hand so tightly that he could feel the movement of blood in her veins.

"Ani…" she whispered, reaching with her other hand to touch his face, and it was just like his mother, and still too much.

He choked on something wordless and buried his face again in Padmé's shoulder. Over his head the eyes of the three women met, but no one said anything.


	12. Interlude: Anamnesis

Summary: Following the events of the last chapter, in his dreams Anakin meets a ghost and comes face to face with his own dissociation.

Note on the chapter title: _Anamnesis_ is Greek for "remembrance" or a calling to mind. In Platonic thought it often refers to remembrance of a past life.

Thanks to Le1a Naberr1e for the beta!

* * *

**Interlude: Anamnesis**

He was sitting on a bed in a small room made of mud brick and colored in dust. Across from him, perched like some curious watching spirit, a small boy sat half-peering out of an alcove. They had both been there for a very long time.

The boy was watching him curiously, blue eyes bright with some emotion he couldn't name. He had the feeling that he'd seen those eyes somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where.

"Who are you?" he asked the boy in a whisper. He was startled that he had spoken at all—he hadn't intended to speak first—but the boy didn't seem surprised. Instead, he was smiling slightly, as though he thought they were playing some elaborate game.

"You don't remember me?" the boy asked, words quiet and bright as the voice of trickling water beneath the sun. The image seemed out of place, somehow, in the drab, dusty little room.

"I've never known you," he said, perhaps too harshly. "How should I remember?"

The boy looked up at him with too-bright eyes, and his lower lip trembled slightly. But there was very little of the child in his words. "You choose to forget, that's why," he said, still in that flowing soft child's voice, though some of the brightness was gone now. "I wish you would remember, though. It would hurt less."

"Hurt?" he repeated, baffled. "How have I hurt you?" But he flinched away from his own words—the possible answers to that question were far too many.

The boy said nothing, and so he began to study the child's face, looking for the answer.

The boy's eyes were blue, a bit brighter than was natural, as though he'd been crying. His face bore the common roundness of childhood, dotted liberally with freckles and topped with an unruly mop of dust colored hair, nearly the same shade as the mud brick walls and dusty floor of the strange room in which they sat.

He did not remember, but he had an idea who this boy might be. After all, it was always this boy, wasn't it?

"You're Penu Chadisk," he said, the words sticking in his throat. Outside the room they sat in, the sound of gusting sand sang of impermanence and loss. And of death. Always, always death.

The boy looked up at him sadly. "No," he whispered, "I'm not. He is one with the Force now."

"A ghost," he answered, his words harsh, ragged. "But you're a ghost, too. Aren't you?"

The boy nodded slowly, something strange shining in his eyes. "But not a dead one," he whispered.

He stared at the boy. Saw the intensity of expression, the non-innocence (remarkable in a child so young), the mingled recognition and denial in those too-bright eyes. And he knew.

"Ani," he said, and his voice sounded hoarse, unused, to his own ears. "You're Anakin."

For one brief instant, the boy favored him with a dazzling smile. And then it was gone.

"Why do you talk about me like I'm someone else?" the boy asked. "I'm you, aren't I? Anakin. I'm what you used to be."

He looked at the child strangely, as though he didn't understand the question. "No," he said at last, and his words rang with finality. "You are only a ghost."

And then there was only the wind, and the roaring sand, and the enveloping crush of blackness.


End file.
